


Dangerous Thing

by Cyberfairie



Series: Redemption [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Adoribull - Freeform, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Brainwashing, Canon-Typical Violence, Flashbacks, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-20
Updated: 2016-06-19
Packaged: 2018-06-03 12:31:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 52,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6610810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cyberfairie/pseuds/Cyberfairie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The man known as Dorian Pavus never made it south.  In fact, he never even made it out of Tevinter before being taken by Qunari raiders.</p><p>Three years later however, a Bas Saarebas bearing a remarkable resemblance to Dorian is rescued by the Inquisitor and taken to Skyhold, where the man insists that dying is his only option.  Unwilling to accept that, the Inquisitor enlists Bull's help to find out if this dangerous thing can be saved.</p><p> </p><p>This is the cross-posting for a prompt I am currently filling on DAKM.<br/>The entire prompt can be found at:  http://dragonage-kink.livejournal.com/15866.html?thread=60919546#t60919546</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Trapped Fox

**Author's Note:**

> This piece has become very dear to me but it certainly deals with some serious topics and experiences as described in the tags above. However, those elements are a very small part of the entire piece and as such I will make certain to additionally tag the chapters that contain Torture, self-harm and the referenced rape so that if you want to read the piece but avoid those particular elements you can...
> 
>  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains descriptions of various forms of torture.

9:38 Dragon

 

Dorian leaned his head back against the wood, wet with sea spray, and tried to ignore the snickers of the ship’s crew as they went about their business around him.  One more day, he told himself as the ship hit another wave, his stomach lurching in a way that would surely have had him heaving over the railing again if it had anything left in it.  Instead, Dorian had resigned himself to sacrificing food in favor of not vomiting until he hit dry land, after all his funds were limited at this point and he was already paying for a miniscule room he couldn’t manage to stay in for more than ten minutes without his sea sickness forcing him back on deck, no reason to pay for food that wouldn’t stay with him either.

Still, all of the stares and snickers and cold wet nights would be worth it if it meant he reached Marnus Pell without his father’s knowledge.  Dorian shivered again, curling up into a tighter ball that had nothing to do with the cold and everything to do with Halward Pavus.  Or more specifically, what father had tried to do.  Blood magic.  His father who had always lectured him about such things being the sign of a lesser man and yet, when Dorian had refused to gracefully accept the lie his father wanted him to live, blood magic suddenly looked appealing enough to Halward that he was willing to turn Dorian into a mindless husk of a human.

Dorian rocked, his eyes seeing father’s study rather than the ship deck before him, blood soaked floors rather than water soaked decks.  Kaffas, how many slaves had father bled to get that much blood?  How many men died so that he could harness his wayward…

“ _Qunari!_  Off the port bow!”

Dorian sprang up like a spring held too long compressed, his eyes locking on the lookout at the front of the ship then tracking in the direction the man was pointing, having to shade his eyes from the brightness of the rising sun to see the hulking form of a Qunari ship closing in on them, three massive sails snapped taut with the morning wind.  A glance at their own single mast told the tale, there would be no outrunning the ship.

Sliding his staff out of its sling Dorian took only a moment to mourn its simplistic design, missing now the more ornate staff he had carried until only days ago, the one that bore the twisted serpents of House Pavus at its head and a blade sharp as any chef dared claim at the tip.  A staff now traded for a few gold pieces and this rather shabby replacement, lacking a staff blade but still fit for channeling Dorian’s casting.

Turning to head up to the upper deck that housed the wheel, Dorian found his shoulder clamped in a firm grip.  “You may be of use yet, young mage,” the Captain drawled, changing his grip to cup Dorian’s elbow when a sharp dip threatened to throw him from his feet.  “That is if we can keep you from falling overboard before the battle.”

Dorian quickly found himself tucked against the upper railing, right in front of the helmsman where the Captain’s fears would be less likely to come true.  Staff at the ready, Dorian learned his first bit of experience in naval warfare…namely that it wasn’t quick.  Even with three filled sails it took the dreadnaught almost an hour to catch up to them.  Time their own crew spent shoving everything they could move off the decks and emptying the holds, all in hopes that lightening the ship might keep them far enough ahead of the Qunari’s to avoid outright war.  It was a good strategy and had the winds been with them they might have stood a chance, but all too soon the dreadnaught was close enough to launch the first attack over the front bow.

“Aim your fire attacks at the line of cannons right above the waterline…if they’ve gaatlok aboard we might yet blow them out of the water,” the Captain growled at Dorian before turning his attention towards the men who were hanging from the rigging, ready to swing over and take the battle to the Qunari vessel as soon as it drew close enough.

Dorian's second bit of experience came quickly…as quick as the ship that swung up beside them, horned silver bodies jumping from ship to ship and attacking with sword and maul and axe.  Dorian was quickly forced to stop attacking the ship itself and focus on the silver skinned beasts now swarming their own vessel, ice becoming preferred rather than chance causing his own demise by burning the ship from beneath his feet.

Dorian heard the helmsman fall, blood quickly turning the deck slick as the Captain screamed for a replacement who never came.  Instead a wave of Qunari swept up the stairs, the first frozen in place and shattered by a lightning bolt, the second singed by a firebolt Dorian deemed safe enough to cast, the third growled and twisted, sending Dorian’s ice bolt into the mast.

“Bas saarebas,” the Qunari snarled, his shield slamming into Dorian’s skull and dropping the mage instantly.

 

 

Dorian woke up in time to vomit nothing but bile, his head swimming with magebane and his wrists aching from the thick wide cuffs that were clamped painfully tight around them and hooked to chains that were bolted to the floor.  Forcing his head up he found himself in a small, windowless room, his mind helpfully telling him that the non-stop rocking was because he was still on a ship rather than from the combined blow to the head and the magebane.  Once it decided to work his mind filled in other helpful facts.  The battle.  The _Qunari_.  Scowling lips.  Bas saarebas.

Kaffas, he was on the Qunari dreadnaught.  Dorian’s stomach turned again at the thought of being at the mercy of those beasts.  He had heard what they did to mages…

His dry heaves proved too much for his weakened body and it was almost a mercy when he found felt darkness take him.

 

 

“Where was your ship headed, bas saarebas?”

“It wasn’t my ship,” Dorian muttered, his head pounding from the magebane the Qunari continued to pour into him.  He wasn’t certain how long the trip to wherever this was had taken, Dorian had spent most of the time on the ship alternating between dry heaving when he was awake and passing out for blessedly long periods of time.

That luxury had been taken from him when the dreadnaught had finally docked and Dorian had been led up on deck by the chain between his shackles, two hulking Qunari with gold tipped horns taking possession of him and clasping a collar around his neck that weighed his shoulders down and make it next to impossible to focus on anything except the steps they demanded he take.  Steps that had led to this room and the imposing man who was currently snarling at him.

“You fought to protect a ship that wasn’t yours?”

“I fought for my life.”

“And yet, here you are…alive.  The same cannot be said for the bas that traveled with you.”

Dorian blanched.  He might not have appreciated the way the sailors had taunted him for his sea sickness but that didn’t mean he wanted to think of them dead.  Not to mention, with no one left alive to report the attack, any hope of rescue, slight as it might have been was effectively reduced to nothing.

Fingers threaded through his hair, sharp claws tearing into his scalp as the hornless Qunari before him pulled his head back, forcing the collar to bite uncomfortably into his neck.  “I ask again, where was your ship headed?”

“I told you it…”

Dorian broke off as his head was slammed into the table in front of him, the Qunari’s claws digging deeper into his skull as he pressed Dorian’s head so hard against the table Dorian half expected his skull to crack.  “None of your lies.  I ask a question, you answer it.  Do you understand, bas saarebas?”

Dorian could feel the blood the Qunari’s claws drew trickling uncomfortably down his skull to pool on the table around his ear, which was ringing in a way totally disharmonious to the echoing the magebane left in his skull.  He barely had time to think that probably wasn’t a good thing before passing out.

 

 

“Where was your ship headed?”

Dorian had to give the Qunari credit for one thing…they were a persistent bunch.  “It wasn’t my ship.”

Dorian didn’t bother to bite back his scream as the staff, his own the Qunari had been proud to point out, slammed into his spine, too high to damage any organs but threatening to crack a rib.  Fuck.  That was a new one, the past several days they had been content to keep the damage to his buttocks and thighs.  Perhaps his interrogator was finally beginning to tire of Dorian…Maker knew Dorian was tired of him.

“What is your House name?”

“I have no house.”  Another blow, another scream.

“What is your name?”

Dorian had almost counted to ten before the blow came, his knees buckling, forcing his arms to carry all his weight where he hung from his shackles.  He made it through three more questions before passing out.

 

 

Dorian woke to the agony of his own weight sitting against his bruised and beaten buttocks, thick ropes tying his ankles to the chair and a chill shot down his spine.  He might have only been a captive for a few days but he didn’t believe slipping backward was something the Qunari were fond of which meant that there was some new torture planned for him today.

The sound of a door slamming shut behind him reminded him that this was the first time since he’d been dragged off the ship that he had awoken without his interrogator already in the room.  Again, dread pooled heavy in his belly at the variation…only increasing when a woman stepped out from behind him.

Dorian couldn’t help but stare, he had never seen a female Qunari and the woman before him wore a mantle of authority like no Qunari he had yet met.  Her horns curved back from her head, waving rather than curling and tipped with silver.  But it was her eyes that held Dorian’s attention, black as night and about as warm despite the smile that tempted the corners of her lips.

“I am Viddasala, bas saarebas,” she said, her tone as pleasant as if she were speaking to a friend as she leaned over the width of the table and took his hands in her own before sitting down in the seat opposite him.  Releasing him, she ran her hands all the way up his now straightened arms to the elbow before lightly clawing her way back down his forearms all the way to his fingertips.  Once more laying her hands over his, now flat against the table she continued, “You will find that I am not as patient as Vidathiss.”

With a nod from the Viddasala the man who had been interrogating Dorian for days stepped into view, Dorian’s staff gripped so firmly in his palms he was surprised the wood didn’t shatter.  Dorian gasped as the Viddasala’s claws dug into the back of his hands, forcing his attention back to her.  Easily capturing both his hands in one of hers she reached down to her hip and pulled off a short golden rod topped with a crystal of some sort, sliding it onto the table before reclaiming the hand she had previously held.  “Now, we shall begin.”

Surprisingly it wasn’t the Viddasala who spoke next but his interrogator.  “Where was your ship headed?”

Dorian barely bit back his typical response.  He was uncertain what danger the woman before him posed but the threat was there the same as if he had awoke to find an asp in his bed.  The pressure of the woman’s claws against the back of his hands had him gasping, the first bead of blood swelling quickly.  “You will answer the question, basra.”

Fasta vass.  He toyed with giving them what they wanted, only the knowledge of what they would do to him once they were finished questioning him stilling his words.  Already the collar and cuffs hung heavy on his skin, he wasn’t in a hurry to find himself masked and muffled.  “It wasn’t my ship.”

Dorian found himself flinching, accustomed by now to the immediate punishment for his response but the only other movement in the room was the tightening of the Viddasala’s mouth and the slow slide of her hand to the rod sitting on the table.  Dorian watched as she flicked a switch and…

Pain, not the sharp crack of a cane but the sting of electricity hitting his entire body, his cuffs and his collar weighing him down until he thought he would have to sink to the floor.  Unable to move so much as a finger as the Vidathiss finally stepped closer, the staff raising above the beast’s head before swinging down to crack against Dorian’s hands.  The sounds of bone snapping filled the room as he tried to open his mouth to scream, the collar preventing even that outlet for the pulsing pain now coursing through his body.

The Viddasala watched him intently, waiting for just the moment when the agony faded to a dull roar before flicking the switch on the rod and freeing him, his mouth falling open on a silent scream as his lungs fought for air.  Instinct had him pulling his broken hands back across the table only to be stopped by her hands slamming back over them, claws digging in to stop his retreat then pulling to force his arms straight again before she grinned at him, a feral, bloodthirsty thing, and said, “Continue.”

“What is your House name?”

Dorian’s eyes darted from tormentor to tormentor, his mind racing as he debated telling them the truth, even the thought of his lips being sewn shut no longer the deterrent it had been only scant minutes before.  Still, he was the Scion of House Pavus, bred to be the best of his line, trained in the great Circle of Minrathous.  “I have no House.”

This time he was certain the flicker in her eyes was respect but it didn’t stop her fingers from flipping the switch nor did it stop the staff from falling again, bones once broken now piercing skin and muscle, the table running wet with his blood.

It took longer this time for her to turn off the collar, her sharp eyes noting the exact moment that the pain no longer felt like it was going to tear him apart from the inside and flipping the switch without ever taking her eyes off of him.  Drawing great gasping breaths, Dorian wondered for the first time if there weren’t things worse than death.  He didn’t bother to move his hands this time, what protection could he offer that they would not take away.

By the time the third blow hit he couldn’t have answered their questions even if he’d wanted to.

 

 

Dorian woke to find himself laying on his side, the throbbing of his bruised backside nothing compared to the agony of his shattered hands.  Gritting his teeth, he cracked open his eyes as he attempted to sit without the use of his arms, stomach turning spears of pain coursing through him at even the slightest movement.

“You are a stubborn one.”

Dorian’s eyes flew open, tracking to the Qunari who sat in the small room’s only chair.  The man was as tall as the other Qunari Dorian had seen, but unlike his brethren this man had no horns making him look far more human than Dorian was comfortable with.

“Like the fox that chews its own paw off to escape a trap yet what good are three legs when chasing a rabbit?”

“Perhaps the fox prefers to meet death on its own terms.”

“Koslun teaches that a self of suffering, brings only suffering to the world and yet you would prefer a lingering death full of suffering rather than a clean, quick one just so you could say it was on your terms?  Like I said, you are stubborn.  Even with yourself.”

“I would prefer not to meet death at all,” Dorian snarled, eyes widening slightly when he realized that despite everything he had been through and the pain he was currently in he meant it.

The Qunari before him chuffed, somewhere between frustration and amusement.  “And yet what good is a mage with no hands?  It is like a qalaba with no milk...good only for taking from the people.”

For the first time since waking Dorian’s eyes dropped to the source of the bone-numbing pain throbbing through his entire being.  His hands had been loosely wrapped with bandages but it was obvious from the amount of pain that nothing had been done to heal them any more than he had been given potions or poultices for the bruising being beaten had caused.  Attempting to flex his hand sent a wave of pain through Dorian as though he’d just thrust his hand into broken glass, chased almost immediately by a cold shiver as the Qunari’s words soaked in.  In his own mind he was a mage first, a man second and a ‘Vint third, but without the use of his hands to trace a rune or grip a staff he would be…nothing.

Dorian barely recognized his own voice, his eyes never raising from the mass of white bandages on his lap as he whispered, “Please…”

“Where was your ship headed, bas saarebas?”

“Marnus Pell.”

 

 

From that point Dorian gained a way to judge the passing of time.  Because every day the same Qunari, his Arvaarad, would come back, though after the first day the questions seemed to stop and the instructions began.  Arvaarad spoke to Dorian as though he were a child, explaining over and over the reasons why mages were inherently dangerous and no amount of Dorian’s assurances that he had passed his Harrowing seemed to reassure the man.  More important than the lessons however was the healer they brought in at the end of each day.

Looking down at his hands, Dorian couldn’t quite bite back the sigh of relief at seeing his right hand back to normal, only the little finger on the left still bearing traces of the damage that had been inflicted on him.  That meant today was day ten as each day the healer had painstakingly straightened one digit, making certain that the bones were in perfect alignment before pushing a wave of healing magic through it.  The first few days just the feel of the magic being pushed into him was enough to make him dizzy, the gnawing ache of his own missing mana more pronounced in the hours after the healer left.  But by the fourth day his unattended fingers had started mending on their own and any desire Dorian might have felt for the mana flowing from the healer’s fingers was outweighed by the nauseating pain that came with the man re-breaking the bones that were healing before shifting them as he wanted them.

“If you find your fingers so much more fascinating than Koslun’s teachings perhaps we should not have been so hasty to heal them.”

Dorian’s eyes flew up, meeting Arvaarad’s only for an instant before remembering that as a mage making eye contact was seen by the Qunari as him attempting to control them, an aggressive stance even if he currently had no mana to threaten Arvaarad with.  “Forgive me, I was thinking about the pain of re-breaking bones.”

“Pain which could have been avoided had you simply answered the questions in the first place.”

“Yes, Arvaarad.”

The Qunari stood, brushing his hands against his leathers as he made for the door and Dorian was startled when he glanced at the single small window set at the top of the cell to see that night was quickly approaching.  Even as he opened his mouth to ask about the healer, Arvaarad was turning back to face him.  “How fortuitous that you already bear a permanent mark from that rather important lesson, bas saarebas.  The healer will not be straightening that finger, may it serve to remind you of where the path away from the Qun leads.”

Dorian wanted to rail against Arvaarad’s decision, to argue that he needed his hands whole to be able to wield a staff, but if nothing else he had learned that the Qunari would do as they wanted and to argue would only be setting himself up for more pain.  To escape he needed his magic back, to get his magic back he had to play the game.  “Yes, Arvaarad.”

 

 

“The statue resists the ebb and flow of the sea.  And is whittled away with each wave.  It protests the setting sun, and its face is burned looking upon it.  It does not know itself.  Stubbornly, it resists wisdom and is transformed into nothing.”

“Far better to fall into the tide and let it carry me.  Trusting in my purpose rather than struggling with my own…” Dorian’s words were interrupted by a sharp rap at the door, only months of practice curbing his magic from surging at the unexpected interruption.

It had taken several months for Arvaarad to determine that he understood just how dangerous his magic was and months longer to learn how to work in concert with Arvaarad, Dorian the conduit through which Arvaarad’s decisions flowed.  If the Qunari wanted fire he got fire, ice begot ice and in return Arvaarad saw to all of Dorian’s needs.  It was the Qunari who worked salve into Dorian’s wrists when the cuffs chaffed, Arvaarad who brought food and drink and who provided the only relief from solitude.

Which was why the knock at the door was so startling, it was the first time since waking in his cell that Dorian had encountered another person and he found himself both eager and apprehensive as Arvaarad opened the door.  Dorian saw only feet, whoever was at the door not large enough to be visible as Arvaarad kept his body angled to block the door, his words too soft for Dorian to hear.

Only once the door slid shut did Arvaarad turn back to Dorian, his eyes already skimming the piece of parchment in his hands.  Dorian watched as the man read the document twice before looking up.  “It would seem it is time, bas saarebas.”

“Arvaarad?”

“We are to be assigned a karataam.  It is time for you to be of assistance to the people instead of taking.”

“Karataam?”

“A unit of soldiers.  Brothers you will be responsible for protecting as we hunt Tal-Vashoth.  You will protect these men as you would yourself bas saarebas and never stray.  To leave the karataam is to sign your own death warrant, do you understand?”

“The needs of the people come above my own needs, even unto death.”

Arvaarad chuffed, the sound pleased as he clasped Dorian on the shoulder.  “Good, bas saarebas.  There is only one more thing to be done before our unit can be determined.  You must undergo the final preparations for a being as dangerous as yourself to be allowed to walk among the people.”

“Arvaarad?”

“If you turn a dog loose with the sheep and those sheep are slaughtered who is at fault?  The dog, who is simply following his instincts or the farmer who failed to muzzle the beast?”

“The farmer, Arvaarad.”

“Exactly.  Tomorrow we shall ensure that your instincts do not allow harm to come to the people.”

 

 

Dorian was surprised to find that the ornate gold mask fit as though it had been made for him, that the thin slits left for him to look through did not hamper his ability to see Arvaarad’s signals nor to read the expressions on the Qunari’s face.  Which was a good thing as only the man’s steady gaze on him stopped Dorian from bolting when they came at him with the thick black thread, the pain of the needle biting through his lips nothing compared to the pain he had experienced all those months ago.  

 


	2. Adrift

9:41 Dragon

Dorian took the hand Arvaarad held out for him, letting the man’s strength guide him as he jumped from the front of the boat, his feet immediately soaked from the slight waves that made it this far into the cove.  When they had first been assigned to their kith Dorian had shrugged off Arvaarad’s attempts to help but had quickly learned that traveling in wet robes for the remainder of the day was far more uncomfortable than any perceived weakness.  Arvaarad had scowled at him when they finally broke for camp that long ago night and told him that there was no weakness in having a need met, the flaw lay in allowing his pride to slow the entire team down.  It was but the first lesson Dorian would learn at the side of these men who had stood beside him for over two years now, their trust in each other tested through a score of battles.

Dorian let his eyes move past Tallis and the two Salit, across the beach to where the narrow trail began to rise up the cliff face.  A chill coursed up Dorian’s spine that he could not explain, a distinct feeling of wrongness that made him want to insist the team pile back into the boat and give up the chase.

“Bas saarebas?” Arvaarad’s voice held only the faintest note of concern, as though he had caught Dorian’s involuntary shiver, which knowing the man he probably had.

“Something is not right here, Arvaarad,” Dorian muttered, careful as always of the pull of the thread against his lips.

“Trap?”

“Uncertain,” Dorian whispered, his eyes not stopping their careful scan of the surroundings.

“Tread cautiously, brothers,” Arvaarad growled as the Salits began moving toward the trail, the path looking even narrower the closer the huge pair got to it.

He and Arvaarad fell into step next to each other as Tallis moved into the middle of the squad.  He was the newest to the team, their old Tallis having been killed during the initial investigations into the group of Tal-Vashoth they were now trailing.  They had been stuck in Llomerryn for a month waiting on the replacement, by which time the group had moved on toward Kirkwall before finally travelling by ship to the Ferelden coast.

Dorian’s sense of unease only increased as they worked their way up the trail, the Salits almost at the top of the climb when a sudden sense of knowing crawled across Dorian’s skin.   _The undead had recently been displaced here._ Fuck.  Necromancy.  It had been so long since he had practiced any form of it that he had not initially understood the pull…

His hands were already moving, the barriers snapping into place over the Salits just as they crested the rise and then…

Electricity coursing over his skin, the abstract pull of the fade replaced by the heavy drag of his collar and cuffs and he was forced to the ground, unable to even move enough to explain why he had done it.  “Bas saarebas,” Arvaarad growled, the control rod slapping painfully against his collar and freeing that part of him, his arms still pinned to the ground.

“Forgive me, Arvaarad.  But I felt the pull of the dead.  A mage…necromancy,” Dorian panted, seeing true fear in the man before him for the first time.  “I feel it heavy here…”

“Veshedan,” Arvaarad growled, his control rod freeing Dorian just as the sounds of battle rang out from the top of the bluff, Tallis stumbling back towards them with an arrow through his outer thigh.

Arvaarad quickly broke the head off and pulled the shaft back through the wound, motioning to Dorian to use his limited healing to stop the bleeding and then they were all making their way to the head of the trail, Tallis whispering, “I saw six.  Three swords, two archers, one mage.”

“Salits?”

“The Saarebas’s magic protected them from the first volley.”

Arvaarad just grunted, though whether in apology to Dorian or annoyance at Tallis Dorian couldn’t be certain.  He suspected the latter as Dorian had indeed broken the rules by casting the barrier without permission in the first place.  “Saarebas,” Arvaarad growled as the trio neared the crest of the bluff.

Dorian cast a fresh barrier over the three of them before falling into position two steps behind and to the right of Arvaarad, a position from which he could focus on the instructions being given to him without obscuring Arvaarad’s assessment of the battle.  Dorian had learned to appreciate the efficiency of the Qunari method, no searching for a target or trying to figure out what spell to cast, all he had to do was trust Arvaarad to know which of the men they faced was the most important to remove from battle and do as he was asked.

Dorian slipped into his role with ease, barriers on Salit one and two, winter’s grasp, fire mine, immolate, static cage, barrier on Tallis, refresh winter’s grasp, flashfire on mage, barrier on Arvaarad, immolate, immolate, barrier on Salit…

Wait.  Dorian’s focus slipped, his mind telling him both Salit’s barriers should need replacing, his eyes searching the field of battle for the first time and finding three of the Tal-Vashoth down before seeing Salit one lying in a pool of blood.  No, he had failed.  How had he not known Salit was falling…

“ _Bas saarebas_ ,” Arvaarad growled, pulling Dorian’s attention back to him before hissing, “barrier, Tallis.”

Dorian rushed to comply, throwing the barrier a moment too late and being forced to watch as Tallis burned alive within the barrier meant to save him.  The tap of the control rod against his cuffs, turned off thankfully, brought Dorian back to himself.  Time later to think about the fact he’d just let two of his kith die, now was about the living.

Snapping his attention back to Arvaarad Dorian focused on the man’s hands and reminded himself he was not an individual but a part of the whole, the conduit through which Arvaarad directed the course of the battle.  To fight the current was to be broken into nothingness, his would jump into the waves and allow himself to be led…

So focused was he on Arvaarad’s hands that when the Qunari fell it took Dorian a moment to realize what had happened, his own posture relaxing for the split second when his mind said the battle was over only to tense again almost immediately when the pool of blood began to spread.  Lifting panic-stricken eyes Dorian found his entire squad dead along with all of the Tal-Vashoth with the exception of one archer.

Blinking down at the still body of the man who had orchestrated every one of his movements for the past three years Dorian felt his heart begin to race.  What now?  What was he to do?  Falling to his knees, the blood that immediately soaked though his robes to chill his skin not even felt, Dorian whispered, “Arvaarad?”

_To leave the karataam is to sign your own death warrant, do you understand?_

_The needs of the people come above my own needs, even unto death._

The heart that had been racing quieted, his breathing evening out as those words from so long ago flitted through his mind.  He knew what needed to be done.  He was a dangerous thing and like all dangerous things turned loose on the world he needed to be brought down.

Dorian watched calmly as the remaining Tal-Vashoth walked towards him, watched as the man’s gaze hardened and his fingers twitched before releasing the arrow that slammed into Dorian’s shoulder, twisting him sideways.  Breathing through the pain Dorian forced his body back to the original position, the archer now much closer and already with a second arrow nocked and flying the moment Dorian straightened, the second arrow tearing through his body center mass, throwing him back and making breathing a struggle.

Blinking up at the single cloud in the sky above him Dorian told himself it was only fitting, he had entered the Qun in pain and he would apparently go out of it the same way.  At least this time he had blue skies above him and firm ground beneath his feet.  Blinking slowly, his body burning for air that his punctured lungs refused to grant Dorian scowled as the Tal-Vashoth’s face came into view, his bow poised for a killing blow.

“There is no honor in killing you, mage.  Had you run I would have let you go, another beaten dog breaking free of its master.”

Closing his eyes, Dorian attempted to summon the strength to explain that in running he would have proven himself to be the wolf, but before he could get the words out he felt rain begin to fall.  Yet how could rain fall from a cloudless sky?  

As he tried to force his eyes open, Dorian’s hand raised to brush at the moisture, his eyes opening enough to show him they came away streaked with blood.  Confused, his mind barely registered that the Tal-Vashoth was gone before he felt the ground shake beneath him, a pair of slender hands nudging at his wounds.  Pain bloomed fresh in his chest, his eyes falling shut again just as the familiar hum of the fade wrapped around him.

“Shit, Inquisitor, he’s  _human_.  What’s a human doing in all these Tal-Vashoth?”

“We’ll figure that out later Varric.  Cass, I need potions, lots of them.”

“Yes, Inquisitor.”

Dorian frowned, feeling his mask slipped from his face, his eyes opening to find a pair of warm blue eyes staring down at him.  “Hey there, don’t worry, we’ll have you feeling better in no time,” she whispered encouragingly, her red hair falling around her face like a mane.

“Asit tal-eb,” Dorian whispered, his lungs burning.  “Bas saarebas.  Ebasit kata Itwa-kith.”

The woman frowned at him then looked away suddenly as another woman appeared above him, this one wearing the heavy plate of a warrior and clutching a bag to her chest.  Reluctantly she pulled a potion from the bag and held it out to the redhead who grasped the cork with her teeth and spitting it away before holding it to Dorian’s lips.

He shook his head, splattering the potion everywhere as the woman sighed.  “You need to drink this.”

Focusing his thoughts was getting harder as his lungs pushed less and less air through his system but Dorian struggled to form the words in common.  “I want to die.  Leave me.”

The red-head reared back as though slapped, the warrior’s scowl deepening.  “Why?  You obviously aren’t Qunari, you’re safe now.  We can take care of you.”

Dorian shook his head, spilled healing potion creeping uncomfortably down his neck as darkness threatened.  Forcing his lips to form one more word he reached for the red-head, his grip somewhat less compelling than he would have hoped as he growled, “Dangerous.”

The stranger’s hand fell off Evie’s wrist, his eyes dropping shut and head lolling to the side.  “Damn it, no,” she growled, twisting herself until she could get her hand down between the wide collar that sat heavy on the man’s shoulders and his neck and feel the reassuring beat of his pulse.

“Is he?” Varric asked hesitantly.

“Not yet,” Evie admitted, letting her fingers slip into his silky hair and force his face back toward her as she held her other hand out and snapped at Cassandra to hand her another potion.  When the warrior wasn’t quick enough to respond Evie forced her attention away from the man before her, scowling up at her friend.  “What’s the problem?”

“You heard him, Inquisitor.  He said he is dangerous.  Perhaps we should consider…”

“He’s barely breathing, Cass, do you really think he poses a danger to any of us?”

“I’m just saying that with Solas having to return to the forward camp, we are without a mage to counteract anything he might choose to do.”

“The only thing he’s doing now, Seeker, is dying,” Varric argued, deftly plucking the bag of potions away from the warrior and fishing one out.

“Why do I bother?” Cassandra muttered, with a wave of her hands.  “Fine, but when you finish with that potion I want you to give him one of magebane.  We cannot trust him.”

“Of course, Seeker.  Far be it from us to attempt to save his life without poisoning him in the process.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kith: Squad
> 
> Ebasit kata Itwa-kith.: It is ended. The squad has fallen.


	3. When Will You Understand

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll be posting Ch. 4 today also because this chapter is rather short and I hate to cheat you all...

Dorian came to with a gasp, his body suddenly awake and present while his mind tried desperately to catch up.  The fact that he awoke at all was a mistake, he was certain of it, but what he was less certain of was _why_.  Forcing his eyes open he saw cream canvas instead of blue sky, only belatedly realizing that his view was, for the first time in three years, unobscured by his mask.  His mask…kaffas, the moment he recognized its absence he also realized that his collar was gone along with the warm anchoring feel of his cuffs.

Heart racing, though air stalled in his lungs, he sat bolt upright in bed only belatedly realizing that while his cuffs were gone, his wrists had been restrained with bandages tied to the cot.  Tugging against his bonds, memories of the fight flooded his mind.  Both Salits falling, Tallis falling, _Arvaarad_ falling, all because he failed to protect them.  Because when it mattered he had proven as unreliable as the feral dog and had not responded to Arvaarad’s needs in time.

“Oh, you’re awake.”

Dorian’s attention flew to the woman who was just entering the tent, her eyes, blue as the sky, familiar though he could not remember why.  The closer she got the more anxious he became, did she not understand just how dangerous he was?  Renewing his struggle against the bonds he kept his eyes on her as she continued to step closer, those blue eyes glossing over with tears.  “Stop, please stop.  We only restrained you because we didn’t want you to harm yourself.”

Letting himself flop back onto the cot, Dorian mumbled, “You should have let me die.”

“You said that when we were on the Coast, but I don’t understand why.  You’re safe now, you don’t have to fear the Qunari anymore.”

“I am bas saarebas.  A dangerous thing, and you are but children who think they know better than their elders to believe differently.”

He heard the woman gasp but refused to look at her, closing his eyes instead and focusing on that spot deep inside Arvaarad had taught him to find when he felt unsettled.  “Shok ebasit hissra.  Meraad astaarit, meraad itwasit, aban aqun.  Maraas shokra.  Anaan esaam Qun.”

The woman spoke but he did not listen.  Of what concern was the bleating of the qalaba to its keepers?

 

 

 

“The healers tell me you’re still not eating.”

Dorian focused his attention on the splotch of canvas that was two shades lighter than the rest of the tent.  He had to give the woman, the Inquisitor, Evelyn Trevelyan, she had called herself yesterday, credit for being determined if nothing else.  In another world, before he had been show just how dangerous his kind could be, he might have dared to call her friend.  “To feed the dead is a waste no army can endure.  Better my food go to the living.”

The Inquisitor sighed heavily as she sank onto the chair she’d had placed at his bedside, one warm hand reaching out to lay on his shoulder.  “I don’t understand this preoccupation you have with dying.  Most people would be thrilled to have a second chance at life.”

“Ebasit kata Itwa-kith.”

“Which means?”

Dorian rolled as far as his restraints would allow, his eyes meeting hers.  “It is ended.  My squad is gone and my life is forfeit.  A wolf once rabid is never again whole.”

Rolling back to his previous position, Dorian closed his eyes and drew in a deep, calming breath.  “Shok ebasit hissra…”

 

 

 

Dorian woke two days later to the scent of crystal grace heavy in the air and he knew before he even opened his eyes that he would find the Inquisitor once again occupying the chair by his bedside.  Blinking open lazy eyes, he could feel his body beginning to fail from the lack of food, his mind blessedly silent even as his heart struggled to pump blood through his veins despite the fact its efforts were no longer appreciated.

“You can’t keep doing this, you need to eat.”

“Perhaps it is you who needs to accept that you cannot keep me from the death that is my due.”

The growl of frustration that came from her was almost enough to make him turn to face her, but he’d learned that the sight of her concern had a tendency to make him doubt his path.  Apparently tired of being ignored, he startled slightly when in a flurry of movement she shifted from the chair to perch on the edge of his cot, her fingers curling around his chin as she turned his head toward the flap of the tent.  “Right outside there are mages who fight side by side with Templars.  Mages who live free of Circles and guards.  Mages who are equals in every way to the men they fight beside, no collars or cuffs or threats of thread sewn lips.”

“Maraas imekari,” Dorian huffed, closing his eyes and drawing a deep breath before opening them and continuing,  “You are like a child who plays with fire, concerned only with the warmth with no care for the destruction it may cause.”

“I don’t understand.  You aren’t Qunari.  At least you weren’t.  Varric says your accent is Tevene, so shouldn’t you know better than to believe this shit the Qunari fed you?  Magic is dangerous, but _you_ aren’t.  You couldn’t have gotten to your age without passing your Harrowing…”

“So because the wolf does not bite you, it should be turned loose with your children?”

“What?  No…damn it, you aren’t a wolf or a dog, you’re a person and you deserve more than this.”

“What I am is bas saarebas.  Ataash varin kata.”

“I’m not giving up on you,” the Inquisitor growled, her eyes flashing like diamonds trapped in ice.

“Maraas imekari,” Dorian muttered again, giving in to the temptation to touch her and curling his hand around her knee where it rested next to his restraints.  Patting it twice, he released her and closed his eyes.  “Shok ebasit hissra…”

 

 

 

The next day she came in like a tempest, throwing back the tent flap and stomping over to his cot.  “What if I sent you home?”

“The only home I require is my eternal one.”

“My advisors and I have spoken.  We believe we can get you to Llomerryn.  Leliana assures me there are Qunari forces there that could get you back to Par Vollen for reeducation.”

Dorian snorted.  “I am not Antaam, I am bas saarebas.  There is no reeducation for my kind.  To be found away from my Karataam means my death.”

“Then Tevinter, surely there is someone in Tevinter…”

_You are no son of mine._

_This is the only way, Dorian.  One small ritual and it all goes away._

“There is nothing for me in Tevinter.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shok ebasit hissra. Meraad astaarit, meraad itwasit, aban aqun. Maraas shokra. Anaan esaam Qun. : Struggle is an illusion. The tide rises, the tide falls, but the sea is changeless. There is nothing to struggle against. Victory is in the Qun.  
> Maraas imekari: A child bleating without meaning.  
> Ataash varin kata: In the end lies glory.


	4. You Want Me To What?

Bull was in his usual spot in the tavern, feet crossed in front of him and his head leaning against the wall as he watched the ebb and flow of the afternoon crowd.  It was more ebb than flow at the moment, usually was about this time of day, which made the Boss’s arrival all the more startling as she threw open the door and stormed across the tavern.  Planting her feet on either side of his own she growled, “You have to make him see reason.”

Another time he might have needed clarification but ever since the Boss got back a week ago with the injured saarebas in tow Bull had been waiting for this moment.  “It _is_ reason to him, Boss.  Just because you don’t like it doesn’t make it wrong.”

“How can you  _say_ that?”

“Case you missed it, Boss, I’m still technically part of the Qun.”

The Boss’s eyes rolled back in her head, her hands shifting to her hips.  “You’re about as devout to the Qun as I am to the Chantry.”

“Doesn’t mean I don’t value a man’s right to choose for himself.”

“But…”

“Listen, Boss.  Truth is reeducation works because the priests that do it are good at their job.  And if your mage hadn’t bought into it, they would have never let him leave Par Vollen, he’d be farming a field somewhere or baking bread or some shit.  So what you’re asking me to do is basically break all that conditioning and well, what you find underneath it may be a mess too big to solve.”

“He’s determined to lay in that tent and die, Bull.  Surely it’s worth at least _trying_.”

Bull sighed, knowing when the Boss pulled out the pout and the sad eyes that it meant he’d end up doing whatever she wanted.  For the single most powerful person in Thedas she was remarkably adept at using childish tactics to get what she wanted.  “Fine, I’ll go see him.  But if I’m gonna do this I’m doing it my way.”

No grown woman should be capable of the excited squeal that came from the Boss as she bounced up and pressed a kiss to his cheek.  “Absolutely.  Your show.  Whatever you need just let me know.”

“Will do, Boss,” he chuckled, shaking his head slowly as she bounded towards the door only to stop suddenly and turn back to him.

“Oh, and Bull…thank you.”

“Anytime, Boss,” he whispered to himself as the door closed behind her.  Shit, what had he just agreed to?

 

 

It was a thought he would find himself having again when he stepped out of the afternoon sun into the cool shade of the healer’s tent to find it empty except for a single cot, its inhabitant glaring at him.  “ _Tal-Vashoth_ ,” the man hissed, the slur rather less effective considering it came out barely a whisper.

Bull growled, the sound coming from deep in his chest as he closed the distance between them.  “Mer-toh ari-van, Hissrad-an.  Bas saarebas-raas-sa.”

The mage’s eyes flared in surprise before they dropped, the man’s focus becoming Bull’s boots.  “Kost.  Shanedan, Hissrad.”

“Parshaara, Bas Saarebas,” Bull muttered, stepping close enough that he could grab the chair that sat next to the head of the cot and spin it around, settling down onto it so that his arms could rest on the back of it.  “We will speak Common rather than arouse suspicion where there should be none.”

“As you wish, Hissrad,” the mage muttered, his attention now focused firmly on Bull’s hands.  “Are you here to finally finish me?”

“Why would I waste what the Qun sends to me so generously?”

The mage’s eyes flashed to his for a moment, confusion evident in their silver depths before they dropped once more.  For the first time Bull thought the Boss might be onto something.  A man who questioned was one who was not yet resigned to his fate, no matter what his words said.  “Question, Bas Saarebas?”

“Forgive me, Hissrad.  I was taught that my life was forfeit if I failed my kith and I…I allowed Arvaarad to fall.”

“Tell me one thing Bas Saarebas, do you wish to die?”

“I…I…” the mage frowned, his eyes darting around the room as though he could find the correct answer written on the canvas walls.  Bull could practically see the man’s mind running, yet more proof that something yet existed inside, some part of the mage that could still conceive of there being more than one answer.  Finally, hesitantly, he replied.  “I want only what benefits the people.”

And there was the answer Bull had expected to hear spouted right away.  “Then until I hear from the Ariqun, it is my decision that you live.  As the only Ben-Hassrath here I could use someone to assist me in gathering information.”

The mage gasped, a frown once again creasing his brow.  “Why would anyone trust something as dangerous as myself?”

“The humans see you as one of them, something I can never be no matter how many battles we fight together.  Trust me, Bas Saarebas, a pretty thing like you will have them eating out of your hand in no time.  Now, what do you say we get out of here?”

The mage’s eyes once again flew up to his, panic flashing in them as he began shaking his head violently.  “No…no…no…you can’t…”

“Kost, Bas Saarebas,” Bull growled, noting that the mage immediately fell still.

“You cannot, Hissrad.  I cannot be trusted even among the bas…”

Bull sighed, less at the mage than at the blind obedience his people had forced into his head.  Still, it suited his purpose for the mage to think the reverse and Bull didn’t bother to hide the frustration in his voice when he grumbled, “You cannot walk around bound and leased.  The bas would never understand, they think our ways barbaric.”

The mage fell silent for several long moments, his teeth worrying at his upper lip.  After looking from the entrance of the tent to Bull and back several times he finally whispered, “Please, Hissrad.”

Watching as the mage tried to keep his body from shaking, Bull realized that the man was truly petrified at the idea of stepping outside without being controlled.  Fuck, the Vidathiss had been thorough with this one.   “I will agree to cuffs and collar but no more, understood?”

The mage stilled instantly, his chest shuddering as he drew in a deep breath.  “Yes, Hissrad.”

There was no missing the way the mage snapped out that response, the same way any good Saarebas would to his Arvaarad.   _Shit.  Great big piles of nug shit._ The Boss so owed him for this.  Without another word Bull spun on his heels and left the tent, hoping that the Boss hadn’t had the offending collar and cuffs destroyed yet.  Fuck, she might owe him but she was still going to kill him.

 

 

" _You need what?_ ”  Damn, months of fighting next to the Boss and he had still underestimated her ability to move like the wind when she wanted to.  As was evidenced by the dagger that she currently had tucked up against his throat.

Clearing his throat to make certain she wasn’t so close that speaking would tip the scales and end up with his blood staining the floors, Bull finally ventured, “We agreed it would be my way.”

He felt her snort as much as heard it, and he didn’t have to be able to see her eyes to know they’d be flashing glacial daggers at him.  “I didn’t know that would include _enslaving him again_.  You gonna borrow some thread from Krem after this?”

“Hey now,” Bull muttered, letting his body sag just enough that it threw her off balance before turning enough to throw her over his shoulder, grabbing at both her arms as she went, his thumb pressing into the nerves in her wrist hard enough to have her hand go instantly numb.  Tucking the dagger into his own belt, Bull shook his head.  “Can we talk about this like adults now?”

The Boss scowled, flicking her numb hand back and forth as feeling began to flow into it again.  “Fucking tricked me.”

“Yeah, I’ll show you how later,” Bull chuckled, flopping onto the sofa behind him.  “Now, you want to hear what I have to say or you want to watch your ‘Vint melt away into nothing.”

“Fine,” she huffed, dropping onto the sofa next to him.  “Talk.”

“First off, you might be right.  I think there might be some of who he was before still rattling around that skull of his.”

“Ha!  Told you!”

“And Josie actually lets you talk to nobles.”

“Hey!” The Boss cried, elbowing him in the ribs.  “I _am_ one of those nobles.”

“Anyway, the problem is that whoever he was is buried deep underneath what the Qunari wanted him to be, and I can’t just pretend that isn’t the truth.  When I suggested taking him out of the tent without the collar and cuffs he about shook himself to death.”

“But, Bull…”

“Listen, you want him back it’s gonna take time.  And in the meantime I agreed to let him wear the collar and cuffs.  It’s not about me having control, it’s about giving him the illusion of it.”

The Boss’s sigh echoed through the room, her fingers tapping nervously against her thighs.  “I don’t know, Bull…”

It was his turn to sigh as he pushed to his feet.  “Then we’re through here, Boss.  Cause short of dragging him out of that tent by the scruff there’s nothing more I can do for you.”

He made it two steps before her hand caught his arm.  “Fine, if you say it’s the only way,” she huffed, “give me a minute.”

Bull leaned against the balustrade and watched as she crossed the room and opened a wooden door and disappeared into what he had always assumed was a storage room of some sort.  In no time at all she emerged with a collar and pair of cuffs that had obviously seen hard days, the metal dented and blackened in several spots and he found himself wondering just how much action the mage had seen in service to the Qun.

When he reached for the set the Boss hesitated to let go of them, a frown fully set on her lips as she grumbled, “I still don’t like this, Bull.”

“Me either, Boss,” he admitted with a shake of his head as she finally let go.  The set might be smaller than the one that Qunari born Saarebas normally wore but as the full weight settled in his hands he felt the unspoken commitment they represented weighed him down all the same.

“Let me know how it goes, Bull.”

“Will do,” he nodded, turning to head down the stairs only to hesitate when she called out his name once more.  With a little grin she approached him and plucked her dagger out of his belt.

“Guess I should say sorry for before,” she chuckled, slipping the dagger back into her own sheath.

“S’ok, Boss.  Figured you’d be pissed when I asked.  Besides…you’re kinda hot when you growl.”

She just rolled her eyes and shoved him in the chest.  “Go…just go.”

“Just saying, do you do that for Cullen?  Because I mean, damn…”

“Bull…”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m going,” he chuckled, the visual of her cheeks darkening keeping the grin on his face until he reached his own quarters and then, damn, there wasn’t anything that was going to keep a smile on his face then.

Resolutely dropping the collar and cuffs onto the table, Bull turned to the chest that occupied the corner of his room, the one he had hidden under a blanket not because he worried about anyone else seeing it but because _he_ didn’t want to have to look at it daily.  Laying the blanket to the side, he pulled a key out of a pouch on his belt and opened the lock to look down on…well, nothing that would seem surprising to anyone else.

But to Bull that ratty old blanket was the one he took with him when he left Tama, the blunted valo-kas the one he had carried in Seheron…too many memories to let it go, too many memories to continue using it.  Below that was a piece of ebony, intricately carved with the tropical flowers that grew unique to Seheron, carved by Vasaad and left on Bull’s bed without a word one night not long before everything went to shit.

Shifting past the memories of a life that seemed to belong to someone else, Bull finally reached for the length of enchanted gold rod that he had hoped to never again have to touch.  It had been given to him when he took charge in Seheron, a failsafe should an Arvaarad ever be unable to fulfill his duty.  Another responsibility he had never wanted but been unable to shirk, but thankfully not one he’d ever been called upon to perform. Not ‘til now, at least.

Carrying the rod back over to the collar and cuffs he pressed the enchantment that would link the rod to the restraints and laid it first against the collar, then each cuff in turn, hearing the harmonic sync when the enchantment had completed correctly.  With a resigned sigh he picked up the restraints and set off after his charge.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mer-toh, Hissrad-an. bas saarebas-raas-sa.: Shut up, I am Hissrad. You are nothing dangerous thing.  
> Kost. Shanedan, Hissrad. Peace. I will listen to you Hissrad.  
> Parshaara, bas saarebas. Enough, dangerous thing.  
> Valo-kas: Great sword


	5. Expectations

Weight.  Heavy, glorious weight spread across the back of his neck, curved soothingly across his shoulders and settled against his collarbone like the finest chain.  Exhaling, he felt the warmth of his breath reflected back off the collar onto his lips, the sensation different from what he had learned to expect because there was no slight tug of thread shifting, no pulled fibers tickling at his skin as they shifted with each exhale.

Pressure.  Firm, unyielding pressure against his wrists.  Not the chaffing bite of cloth bandages but the reassuring warmth of metal snug against his flesh, tight enough to ensure that his casts would be things of precision, not beauty; of need, not hubris.

Releasing another shuddering breath, Dorian turned his eyes upward, obediently stopping mid-chest rather than meeting the spy in the eye as he whispered, “Please, Hissrad.”

The man before him shifted his weight from one foot to the other, his obvious discomfort causing a small frisson of concern to erupt in Dorian’s chest.  Then, before it had a chance to break free…

Electricity coursed over his skin, pulsing points of pain that sought to find the magic currently hidden from him by the magebane even as the cuffs and collar forced him from the cot to kneel at the ground before Hissrad’s feet.  His lungs screamed with the need to expel air, his throat itching to let loose a cry of pain even as his mind fell blessedly silent.  Asit tal-eb.  He was where he was supposed to be.  He was once again _who_ he was supposed to be.  For one blessed second the absolute rightness of the moment echoed through every cell in his body, time froze and Dorian simply _was_.

Then the tap of the control rod against his collar shattered the moment into a thousand pieces.  The agonized cry that had been denied him fell from his lips on a rush of air.  His ears rang with the sound of the rod to collar, his skin crawled from the lack of stimulation, his hands clutched at the ground beneath him in an attempt to hold on to a directive no longer an imperative.

Drawing in several sobbing breaths, Dorian wondered how he could have ever wanted death, how he could have believed for one moment that the end of his existence could ever be as important as this moment when he was so very certain of his place in the world.  Daring to raise his tear-filled eyes to the man before him he whispered, “Thank you, Hissrad.  Asit tal-eb.  Thank you.  Thank you.”

 

Dorian wasn’t certain how long he’d been kneeling on the ground when he heard Hissrad release a heavy sigh, the man’s weight shifting on his feet again and Dorian was reminded that the man wore a brace on one leg and he’d been left standing for Maker knew how long while Dorian drifted.  Kaffas.

“Forgive me, Hissrad,” he muttered, pushing himself to his feet only to sway so violently he would have crashed to the ground had the Qunari not slipped a hand under his elbow.

“That’s what a week with no food will do to you.”

The slight hint of amusement that tinged Hissrad’s words was lost in the censure Dorian felt.  Already he was failing his new keeper and he hadn’t even managed to step foot outside of the tent yet.  Surprised at how much concentration merely straightening and shrugging off Hissrad’s support took, Dorian could only hope that wherever they were headed wasn’t far.  “After you, Hissrad.”

Falling into position two steps behind and to the right of Hissrad, Dorian found himself stumbling to a stop again the moment he stepped out of the tent.  This time it had nothing to do with weakness and everything to do with the sun beating down upon him.  Tilting his head up, his eyes drifted shut and he allowed the warmth to suffuse his skin and seep into his bones.  Kaffas, he hadn’t realized how very cold he had gotten since coming south, yet another thing to be thankful to Hissrad…fasta vass, Hissrad.

Snapping his eyes open, Dorian frowned to see the spy almost half a courtyard away from him and staring back his way.  Letting his gaze drop, Dorian hurried towards the spy, forcing himself not to cringe in expectation of the cuff to the head he was fully expecting to be bestowed upon him.  Certainly had it been Arvaarad his ears would be ringing for an hour.  “Forgive me, Hissrad.  I forgot myself, I assure you it won’t happen again.”

A heavy sigh fell from the spy’s lips.  “Listen, I’m not your Arvaarad.  You don’t have to follow two steps behind me and you sure as shit don’t need to apologize for enjoying a moment in the sun.  Do you understand?”

Dorian frowned.  Of course Hissrad was not Arvaarad, he was Hissrad, but Dorian had no practice following a Hissrad.  Hoping he wasn’t making a mistake by showing his ignorance, Dorian whispered, “Where would you prefer me to walk, Hissrad?”

A long breath drawn through clenched teeth was followed by another sigh.  “Walk wherever pleases you,” Hissrad finally muttered before turning and heading up a set of stairs.

It was Dorian’s turn to bite back a frustrated sound as he waited for Hissrad to get three steps in front of him this time before hurrying to follow.  Why did everything have to be so confusing?  Why couldn’t Hissrad just tell Dorian where he wanted him?  A shiver coursed through Dorian at the thought that perhaps the man just wanted Dorian to guess incorrectly.  He had seen it before, not with his Arvaarad, but there were other Arvaarad’s who seemed to actively look for faults with their Saarebas if only to justify the punishment they were always quick to deal out.

Three steps, Dorian told himself, just follow three steps behind.  Close enough that he could read every shift of Hissrad’s muscles but not so close that the man felt like he was breathing down his neck.  Surely three steps had to be right.  Forcing his tired body up not one but two flights of stairs, Dorian was grateful for the slight pause Hissrad made as they reached the first landing, then again when they stood before the entrance to a great hall.

Hearing the sounds of many voices, Dorian forced his attention off the floor, needing to know where each person stood to avoid running into anyone and embarrassing Hissrad as they moved through the crowd.  As they hastened across the room towards a door set into a sidewall, Dorian became acutely aware of the attention he and Hissrad were attracting.  Dorian found himself missing the mask he had worn for so long, realizing only now that it had sheltered him as much as it had concealed, the thin slits forcing his attention to remain on Arvaarad whereas now his eyes kept wanting to dart from person to person only to realize that his first impression was correct, they were all staring.

A bead of sweat rolled down his hairline as his breathing began to pick-up though he forced his steps to continue on in the same measured way until Hissrad pulled open the door and gestured him through.  Finding himself standing at the edge of a deserted courtyard garden, Dorian thought he had managed to make his sigh of relief silent until Hissrad offered, “Ignore them, they’re assholes.”

Dorian wasn’t sure if he wanted to laugh or cry, was tempted to do both before reminding himself that his discomfort wasn’t important here.  What _was_ important was that Hissrad wanted him to get to know these people. That would mean facing the stares for longer than the two minutes he’d just been subjected to.

Leaving the courtyard behind and climbing another short flight of stairs, Dorian found himself biting back another sigh of relief when Hissrad finally stopped before the last door along the hallway, quickly opening it and motioning Dorian in.  Stepping into the room Dorian’s eyes scanned over a small table with a pair of chairs sitting against the wall, a single high back tufted chair sat before the cold fireplace.  A low dresser occupied yet another wall while a large bed took up much of the remaining space in the room.

All in all, it was a pleasant room, thick rugs covered the floor and there were even a couple of tapestries hanging on the walls.  In short, it looked like the room a spy would occupy, comfortable but lacking any sort of personal touches that might give anyone a clue as to who Hissrad actually was.  Dorian’s attention was called back to the spy when he cleared his throat loudly behind him.  Turning, he found Hissrad running his hand across the back of his neck nervously.  “So, I could probably scrounge up some sandwiches in the kitchen.  Maybe some soup.”

Kaffas, Dorian had been hoping to sit for a few minutes.  Heading back towards the larger man, Dorian nodded.  “Of course, Hissrad.”

“No, no,” Hissrad muttered, holding his hand up to stop Dorian.  “I’ll go.  Why don’t you get some rest and we’ll see what you can get down.”

Dorian’s immediate relief at the thought of getting off his feet was chased with concern at being left alone.  “Hissrad?”

“It’s fine, Bas Saarebas.  The room is yours, you’re safe here.  Rest, I won’t be long.”

Before Dorian could explain that it wasn’t his own safety he was concerned about, Hissrad had closed the door and Dorian found himself waiting for the sound a lock turning only to frown when it didn’t happen.  Closing the last of the distance to the door he reached for the handle to check it only to snatch his hand back when it occurred to him that this could be another of Hissrad’s tests.  What if the man were waiting just outside the door to see if Dorian opened it?

Dorian took two large steps back.  No, Hissrad had told him to wait and rest and that was what he would do.  Looking around the room for the spare bedding he expected to find tucked into a corner or under the bed, Dorian sighed when he discovered nothing.  It would seem that for all his pretty words, Hissrad was even less inclined to pamper his saarebas than Arvaarad had been.  Missing the blanket and thin pillow he had been allowed for so long, Dorian curled up at the foot of the bed, thankful at least for the rug that shielded him from the worst of the cold stone floor.

He had thought he would drift off immediately, lack of food and his trek through the keep exhausting his body but as he lay on the rug, hands cupped beneath his head, all he could think of was that it was too quiet.  For three years he had been surrounded by sound.  By Arvaarad’s heavy snores when he slept, the incessant scratching of Tallis’s quill to parchment as he drafted missives, both Salit’s whispering to each other from the far side of the fire.  Perhaps if Hissrad’s fireplace had been lit the noise would have been enough to soothe him but instead all he could think of was how much he missed the sound of his kith.  Even in the healing tent there had been someone around, the tent providing little buffer from the noise of a busy keep.

Now, there was only silence and, despite the difference in furnishings, Dorian found himself thinking back to the year he’d spent in the cell in Par Vollen.  Of nights so silent he could almost believe that the entire temple had been cleared out and only he left behind, forgotten.  He could still remember the relief he felt each morning when Arvaarad would come in once the sun rose, of how he would sit for hours listening to the man speak and remind himself that he would never be forgotten, that Arvaarad would always be with him.

Except he wasn’t, was he?  Dorian had managed to fuck that up, too.  Perhaps laying here alone now was his penance for allowing those under his care to perish.  Shivering, Dorian curled tighter into a ball, his thumb shifting restlessly against the carpet, the sound almost matching that of a quill to paper, until finally he fell into a restless sleep.

 

 

“ _Veshedan_.”

Dorian startled at the softly hissed word followed almost immediately by the slamming of the door and with a shake of his head, he forced his aching body to move.  “Hissrad?”

With a shake of his head the spy crossed to the table, setting down a tray laden with food before resting his hands flat on the table and drawing in several deep breathes.  Dorian had almost decided to brave asking the man if he was alright when Hissrad turned to face him.  “Why in Koslun’s balls were you sleeping on the floor?”

Dorian froze.  Fasta vass, had he missed the bedding after all?  He hadn’t wanted to disturb Hissrad’s belongings by going through the dresser, could they have been in the dresser?  He should have checked the dresser.  “I…”

Shaking his head, Hissrad looked at Dorian with some cross between disappointment and resignation.  Raising his arms to encompass the room, Hissrad explained, “The room is _yours_ , Bas Saarebas.  That includes the bed.  The Inquisitor placed robes in the dresser, and Solas picked out some books he thought might interest you.”

“But, Hissrad…”

“Fuck, why didn’t you start the fire, at least?” Hissrad grumbled, rubbing his hands over his arms as he strode to the fireplace and set about lighting the kindling that had been arranged within it.

Dorian stared at Hissrad’s back and tried to make sense of his words.  bas saarebas did not _have_ rooms, kaffas, not even a saarebas could be trusted with a space of his own.  Tools did not own the shed that they were stored in, nor a sword its sheath, how could Hissrad imply…?

Feeding a couple of logs onto the now raging fire, Hissrad snorted in a satisfied way before straightening and pushing past where Dorian stood frozen to begin sorting through the food he had brought.  Watching the flames Dorian tried to remember how Hissrad had gotten the flame started in the first place, usually it was he who started the fire but only once Arvaarad told him it was time and then it was a simple thing to call his magic into being.  But now, his magic was blocked by the magebane and instead of telling him what he wanted, Hissrad seemed to think that Dorian should be able to read his mind and know what to do.

“You with me, Bas Saarebas?”

“Yes, Hissrad,” Dorian whispered, the words more habit than actual truth.  In all honesty, the man before Dorian confused the fuck out of him.  He carried the control rod and obviously knew how to use it; he knew the words but used them wrong; it seemed he kept expecting Dorian to think.  Dorian was suddenly reminded of the Viddasala and the way she would encourage him, only to smash the staff against his hands again and again until he was no longer capable of speech.  No, he had learned that lesson, he would remain silent.  Only in silence was he ensured of not saying the wrong thing.

Remaining where he was until Hissrad finally stopped bustling around behind him, Dorian was pleased to hear Hissrad command, “Come, sit.  Eat.”

Flush with the feeling that he had finally done something right, Dorian hurried to comply, finding Hissrad gesturing him toward a seat before which sat a massive amount of food.  Looking over the offering, Dorian wasn’t certain where to start, or what exactly his stomach would tolerate.

“Yeah, might have overdone it,” Hissrad admitted, shifting the food away from him until only a bowl of broth and a couple of thin rolls were left.  “Try that and then if you want more, let me know.”

The broth was bland, with only the faintest taste of chicken, but the rolls were fresh and soft and Dorian was surprised to find that he had eaten two of them and most of the broth before his stomach began to complain.  Setting his spoon down he glanced over to see that Hissrad had eaten most of his own share of food, though the man didn’t hesitate when Dorian stopped eating to set down his fork and stand.

Crossing to the bed, Hissrad pulled back the covers.  “Come on, into bed with you before you fall down.”

Sparing only a momentary thought to the fact that he was probably too dirty to be crawling into such white sheets, Dorian allowed Hissrad to drape the blankets back over him.  “Sleep, Bas Saarebas.  We can talk tomorrow.”

This was easier, Dorian thought lazily as his body relaxed into the soft mattress.  Finally, clear instructions he knew how to follow.  He could only hope it would last.


	6. Not Cut Out For This

Bull stepped out into the Chantry courtyard and braced his hands against the short wall between the walkway and the garden proper.  Dropping his head, he let his eye drift shut and drew in several deep breaths.  Fuck, that had been…well, fucking horrible.

Fingers clenching at the wall, his mind was filled with images.  The mage kneeling at his feet, thanking him for shocking him.  The little smile curling at the mage’s lips when he had his head tipped towards the sun like a flower soaking up the light, only to apologize a moment later, bracing himself as though he’d expected Bull to hit him.  The mage curled up on the damned floor because Bull hadn’t thought to tell him he could use the bed…who the fuck trained someone to think that a _bed_ was a luxury denied them?

_Your people._  Bull growled at the little voice in his mind, the one that obviously hadn’t been watching for the past four years as he found himself drawing further and further away from the Qun.  And fuck, hadn’t that worked out so well, he asked himself, the weight of the control rod hanging from his belt a firm reminder that you couldn’t run from what you are.

“Tiny, you alright?”

Bull’s head shot up.  Shit.  How could he have missed the door opening?  Blinking quickly to drive away the emotions that were far too close to the surface, he pasted an easy smile on his face.  “Sure, why wouldn’t I be?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Varric drawled, closing the distance between them to lean his hip against the wall right next to where Bull still retained a white knuckled grip on it.  “You just don’t seem the sort to enjoy cuffs and collars outside the bedroom.”

Bull made a humorless noise.  “Think you know me so well, huh?”

Varric stared up at him thoughtfully, his expression somber for several minutes until he shifted, his hip nudging at Bull’s hand.  “I think I know you could use a drink right about now.”

“Now that’s cheating,” Bull laughed, forcing himself to let go of the wall before he broke it.  “I’m always up for a drink.”

“That’s the spirit,” Varric chuckled, the pair of them turning to make their way through the keep, managing to do so without attracting nearly as much attention as earlier.

Unfortunately that luck seemed to run out just about the time they hit the bottom step and Krem pushed himself up off the bench outside the tavern, heading their way.  Keeping his eye on his lieutenant, Bull slapped Varric on the shoulder.  “I’ll meet you inside in a minute.”

Varric’s attention shifted once from Bull to Krem and back again but the dwarf didn’t say anything before continuing on into the Herald’s Rest.  Not liking the frown set firmly on his second’s face, Bull figured it was time to go on the offensive.  “We got a problem, Krem?”

Krem shrugged and continued approaching until he was verging on being firmly in Bull’s space.  “Not sure, Chief.  Guess that depends on if I actually saw what I thought I saw a couple hours ago.”

Bull sighed, far too tired to play word games at the moment.  “If you’ve got something to say, Krem Puff, say it, otherwise there’s a drink and a chair inside with my name on them.”

Krem’s eyes narrowed, his attention shifting to Bull’s hip where the gold control rod hung.  “Look, Chief.  You and I have always been honest with one another, at least I think we have.  And if this is one of those Qun things of yours, then I guess you can tell me it’s none of my business, but it sure as shit looked like you had a mage with you earlier all cuffed up like your people like to do,” Krem shook his head, broad shoulders shifting with a small shudder. “I gotta tell you, it made the hair on my neck stand up.”

“It’s not what you think, Krem.  I mean it _is_ , but…shit,” Bull broke off, rubbing at the back of his neck.   _Listen Krem, I had to collar him to get him out of the tent.  He expected me to beat him for looking at the sun.  He fucking laid shivering on a floor because I didn’t tell him he could use the bed._  The list of his screw ups was epic and this was only the first day.   Bull allowed himself an exhausted sigh. The entire situation was _fucked_ . “Listen, can we go inside and get a drink and I’ll explain it to everyone?  It’s been a fucked up day and I’m not sure I’ve got it in me to say it more than once.”

For the second time in under an hour Bull found himself being closely scrutinized, this time by someone who knew far more of his tells. Within just a few seconds Krem snorted and shook his head, his expression morphing to reluctant acceptance.  “Come on, we’ll get a round and you can tell us all just what you’ve managed to get yourself into.”

 

One round had turned into two and then three before Bull felt the tension begin to slip from his shoulders enough that he dared to begin speaking.  They were well into round four by the time Bull finished his story, every single one of the Chargers staring at him, struck silent by his explanation of the day’s events.

“That is one fucked up situation, Chief,” Krem finally volunteered, punctuating his statement by slamming his now empty mug onto the table.

“Surely you can’t mean to keep dosing him with magebane, Chief,” Stitches offered quietly with a shake of his head.  “It’ll kill him sooner or later.”

“Don’t really have a choice. It’s that or keep the collar turned on all the time right now,” Bull admitted, swiping a tired hand over his face.  “I can’t trust the guy not to off himself just yet.”

“But you left him in the room,” Dalish scowled, her eyes darting towards the control rod Bull had slapped on the table when he’d explained why he’d collared and cuffed the mage. Neither Dalish nor Skinner had taken that news all that well.

“One of Cullen’s men is standing guard.  Not that I think he’d try to leave anyway.  Fuck, you should have seen the relief on his face when I gave him a command.  Poor bastard hasn’t had an individual thought in who knows how long.  I’m still tempted to tell the Boss the guy’s a lost cause.”

“ _Chief_!”

Bull was surprised to realize it was Skinner who had spoken, though by the time he turned his attention to her she was back to studiously glaring at her tankard.  “Alright so now you all know the score, any ideas that don’t involve me actually having to use this fucking rod?”

The entire table fell silent again, save the sound of Varric’s quill scratching in his notebook.  Bull shuddered to think of what new novels the dwarf’s mind could come up with for this scenario.  Then again, nothing could be wilder than the truth.

Waving away Lisbeth when she came to ask about another round, Bull climbed to his feet with a heavy sigh, snatching up the control rod as he went.  “Right, so, anyone gets any ideas, you let me know.  For now I’m gonna try to get him used to things here in Skyhold and hope that something clicks in his head.”

_‘Cause I sure as fuck don’t think I can keep this up._ Bull managed to keep that little bit to himself, certain he’d already laid enough at his team’s feet for the night. Heading towards the stairs, Bull tried to remember the last time he’d felt so tired after doing so fucking little and all he could come up with was Seheron…and wasn’t that just a wonderful fucking realization. He’d been reassigned for a _reason_ , damnit.

“Bull…”

He heard her, knew that he should probably stop and see what she wanted but he was afraid if he stopped moving he’d just fall down right where he stood.  “Not now, Boss…”

“But I wanted…”

“Fuck, I said not _now_ ,” Bull roared, spinning on his heel to face the smaller woman just in time to see her eyes widen with surprise.  Sighing deeply he ran his hand over his face again.  “Shit, sorry Boss.  It’s just...I _can’t_.”

The Boss’s expression softened and she didn’t bother to speak, just laid her hand against his arm for a moment before nodding.

Giving her a tired smile, Bull resumed his trek towards his room.  The stairs seemed to go on forever as he took them one at a time instead of his usual two, feeling the weight of a lot more than his muscle on his shoulders.  


	7. Encountering Bull's Kith

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some very mild self hate as a result of Dorian's brainwashing...

Dorian was uncertain what woke him, but once awake he found it impossible to go back to sleep.  The bed, and indeed the sheets themselves, were impossibly soft and brought to mind memories of the time _before_.  Dorian hated thinking about his life back then, how proud he had been in his ignorance, like the cawing peacock his house was named for.  Perhaps worse than the memories was the fact that some small part of him actually missed those days, missed waking up like he had this morning warm and content.

_No.  Lazy and entitled._ To believe otherwise was to invite madness.  Comfort was for the people not for those such as him.  What use had a staff for softness or warmth?  Fumbling his way out of the cocoon of blankets, Dorian drew in a sharp breath as the cold that saturated the rest of the room reached him.  Dropping to his knees, he laid his hands, palms up, against his thighs and bowed his head.  “Existence is a choice.  There is no chaos in the world, only complexity.  Knowledge of the complex is wisdom.  From wisdom of the world comes wisdom of the self.  Mastery of the self is mastery of the world…”

He had made it through to the Eighth Canto by the time that the door to his room opened and Hissrad stepped in, a tray overflowing with stoneware balanced on one huge palm.  Scrambling to his feet, Dorian cursed under his breath when lightheadedness forced him to reach for one of the columns of the bed rather than hurrying to assist Hissrad with his burden.

With a wry grin and a shake of his head Hissrad gestured Dorian toward the table.  “Sit, before you fall down.”

“Yes, Hissrad,” Dorian muttered, sliding onto the same chair he’d sat at the day before and swallowing a gasp when Hissrad dropped his tray onto the table.  Oats, eggs, slices of ham as large as the plate they sat on, rolls…

“You got something against fire?”

Dorian’s eyes flew from the bounty laid out before him up to Hissrad, their eyes meeting for a brief second before he dropped his gaze.  Fasta vass, the man hadn’t even been in the room two minutes and Dorian was already screwing up.  Slipping from the chair to the floor, he whispered, “Forgive me, Hissrad, I meant no disrespect.”

“Shit, get off the floor,” Hissrad grumbled, an exasperated sigh escaping him as he reached for Dorian’s elbow and helped him back into the chair.

The chair opposite Dorian creaked ominously when Hissrad dropped into it with another heavy sigh.  Not daring to lift his gaze from his hands that were folded in his lap, Dorian felt Hissrad’s eye on him, the man’s attention has heavy a thing as any collar ever had been.  Just when Dorian thought he might crumble beneath the weight, Hissrad moved and Dorian found himself bracing for a blow that never came.  Instead, Hissrad began dividing up the food as he had the night before, serving Dorian a little of everything he had brought while taking a larger portion for himself.  “Go on, eat.  We need to talk later but no sense in letting everything get cold.”

“Yes, Hissrad,” Dorian whispered, staring at the fork and spoon as he tried to decide just where to start.  The oats would be easy on his still-recovering system, and were what his kith had typically shared for morning meal, but eggs were also a frequent occurrence when they weren’t in the field.  Perhaps a roll would be better, though, the ones the night before had been pleasing. He noticed that in addition to similar ones this morning, there were also some that had fruit tucked into them.  Although the ham…

“Oh for…” Hissrad whispered under his breath, his hand darting over to Dorian’s side of the table to point at the oats with his fork.  “Start with the oats, cold oats aren’t worth eating.  Then the eggs and if you’re still hungry the rolls.  They’ll keep for later though, so don’t stuff yourself.”

Something inside Dorian settled as he reached for the spoon and pulled the bowl of oats closer and began to eat.

“Finished?”

Dorian glanced up from where he was pushing around the remains of his breakfast to find that Hissrad’s plate had nearly been picked clean.  “Yes, Hissrad.”

“Good, first drink this,” Hissrad said, a familiar purplish potion appearing on the table by Dorian’s elbow.  “Then we’ll talk.”

Dorian plucked up the bottle, a small shiver coursing through him the moment he uncorked the bottle and the pungent smell of magebane reached his nose.  He had hoped that once he had his cuffs and collar back the poison wouldn’t be necessary but apparently Hissrad didn’t care to take chances.  Grimacing in advance of the taste it would take half the day to get out of his mouth, Dorian downed the potion in one long swallow before carefully corking the bottle and placing it back on the table.

“Alright,” Hissrad started, scooting his chair around the end of the table so they could speak without the remains of breakfast between them.  “So…you may have noticed we aren’t in Par Vollen.  And here in the South, refusing to meet someone’s eyes only makes them think you have something to hide.  You don’t have anything to hide, do you, Bas Saarebas?”

“No, Hissrad.  Of course not.”  Dorian practically tripped over his own tongue getting the denial out.

“Then you won’t have a problem looking at me.”

“No, Hissrad, I mean yes, Hissrad, I mean…” Dorian broke off with a little sigh.  Kaffas, the man before him was going to be the death of him, he was sure of it.  Even so, if his new handler wanted him to look at him then...

It was harder than Dorian anticipated, shifting his gaze up past Hissrad’s shoulders, along the man’s neck and across his cheeks until he could see the pleased gleam in the spy’s one grey eye.  Resisting the urge to drop his gaze, Dorian was rewarded with a little grin from the Qunari.  “Much better, eyes that pretty should be seen.”

Dorian ignored the little thrill of pleasure that the compliment sent through him and focused instead on memorizing Hissrad’s features now that he had permission to actually look.  It was a pleasant face to look at, from the spy’s strong jaw and firm lips all the way up to the one eye that Dorian found still focused on him, the color darker than his own silver and oh so expressive.  He found himself wondering what had taken Hissrad’s second eye, the scarring that peeked out from beneath the ornately detailed silverite eyepatch hinting at something dire.  Perhaps most impressive, however, were the horns that curved out from the spy’s head, the pair of them as wide as Hissrad’s shoulders, easily the largest he had ever seen.

“Yeah, they’re something, aren’t they?” Hissrad chuckled, raising a hand to one of the horns and making Dorian question whether he’d actually voiced his thoughts out loud.  “That brings to mind the second thing we need to talk about.  Southerners are kinda sensitive about the whole Hissrad thing, so I go by The Iron Bull.  It would be better if you called me that.”

Dorian frowned, but managed to keep his mouth shut as he mulled over Hissrad’s words.   It felt wrong, disrespectful somehow, to refer to his handler in such a way, but the spy’s words made sense and if Dorian was to be of assistance to Hissrad, then he needed to behave in a way that did not call attention.  Releasing the breath he hadn’t been aware of holding, he finally nodded his head jerkily and was rewarded by another of Hissrad’s broad smiles.

“Good.  Now, we need a name for you, Bas Saarebas.  Don’t suppose you want to…”

Dorian’s eyes dropped immediately, his heart rate increasing until he was certain it would leap from his chest at any moment as Arvaarad’s voice exploded in his mind.   “ _To call a thing by its name is to know its reason in the world.  To call a thing falsely is to put out one’s own eyes.  You are bas saarebas, to pretend anything else is to put the people in danger.”_

_“Yes, Arvaarad.”_

_“Say it.”_

_“I am bas saarebas,” Dorian had whispered, the words foreign on his tongue as only the first words in a new language can be.  He repeated them to himself over and over until he could speak them as flawlessly as he had once spoken the words Dorian Pavus.  That other, damaged self, relegated to the portion of his mind where only memories held court._

 

“Hey, it’s ok, Bas Saarebas.  Come on, talk to me.”

Dorian startled, blinking once as Hissrad’s concerned face came into focus far closer than it had been just moments ago.  An unfamiliar warmth against his skin pulled his attention down to where the spy’s hands were gripping Dorian’s forearms tightly right above the spot the cuffs covered.  “Forgive me, Hiss…The Iron Bull.”

“No problem,” The Iron Bull answered, concern still evident in his eye despite the slight tilt to his lips.  The spy released his hold on Dorian, patting his arm once before straightening.  “What do you say we get a fire started and warm this place up?”

The Iron Bull moved past Dorian towards the fireplace and Dorian remained where he was, shifting so he could watch the spy gather together small bits of wood and dried plants from a basket near the fireplace before placing them in the middle of the ashes.  “Dawned on me you might have never started a fire without your magic,” The Iron Bull started, conversationally, as though Dorian’s moment of panic had never occurred.  “It’s important to start with the driest wood possible, the maids bring around dried flowers and dead foliage and leave it in these baskets so that it’s easier to get the fire started.  If you come closer I’ll show you how to use the flint.”

By the time The Iron Bull was satisfied Dorian could start a fire even without his magic, Dorian had managed to set a spark ablaze five times.  The first four The Iron Bull quickly extinguished by slapping his huge palm down on the barely smoldering kindling but the fifth he allowed to flare into life and then proceeded to show Dorian how to progressively apply larger and larger pieces of wood to the stack until finally the entire room was being warmed by a medium sized blaze.  All in all, Dorian found it rather barbaric, however the mere fact that it seemed important to The Iron Bull made him pay close attention.

“Good job,” The Iron Bull grinned, slapping Dorian on the shoulder before straightening.  “Now try actually starting the damn thing instead of enduring a freezing room, ok?”

“Yes, The Iron Bull.”

The spy must have heard some hesitancy in Dorian’s voice because he turned to face him head on.  “Let me make this clear.  You have permission to start a fire whenever you need to.  Got it?”

Dorian nodded, his eyes flitting from The Iron Bull’s face down to his chest as he heard the unspoken frustration in the man’s voice.  He hated irritating the spy and, although The Iron Bull had been patient until now, Dorian knew that patience was a finite thing.  It was just that unless he was freezing he hardly _needed_ a fire, and yet The Iron Bull had been angry with him yesterday and today for not starting one, and he _did_ need to not anger his handler.  Part of him wished that he could just have a pallet at the foot of The Iron Bull’s bed the way he had with Arvaarad.  It was easier when the things he did were to benefit his handler. Less confusion about needs versus wants that way.

“Alright,” The Iron Bull sighed, as though Dorian had somehow failed him again.  “What do you say we find you some robes that don’t look like they’ve been slept in, and then you can watch me and the boys train for a bit.”

_The boys?_  The words were on the tip of Dorian’s tongue before he bit them back.  The Iron Bull might seem to be more lenient than Arvaarad, but no man appreciated being cut by his own sword.  Dorian assumed that silence had been the correct decision, or at least not an incorrect one, when The Iron Bull turned to him with a grin and handed him a set of dark blue robes.  “The Boss was rather pleased with herself over these, hopefully you like them.”

Dorian could tell from just the slide of the robes over his palm that they were of fine quality, certainly softer than the coarsely woven set he was currently wearing.  “I’m certain they will be sufficient,” Dorian assured the spy, dropping the new robes on the corner of the bed and quickly stripping out of the set he was wearing.

“So, uhm,” The Iron Bull began, a nervous cough interrupting his words.  “I’ll just step out and give you some privacy.”

Dorian turned towards Bull, clean robes in hand, and frowned at the spy.  “Privacy?  You might as well offer the same to the robes I carry.  I do not require such things.”

Dorian found himself amused as The Iron Bull’s attention seemed to flit from Dorian’s eyes down to where his smalls curved snuggly around his cock and back up again before finally settling somewhere around Dorian’s collarbone, and there was definitely a note of discomfort in the spy’s voice when he muttered, “Yeah, well…I’ll wait for you in the hallway.  There’s a, uhm, new pair of boots next to the dresser if you need them, I wasn’t sure about the ones you had.”

The spy was out the door so quickly Dorian half expected the door to hit him on the ass on the way out.  His new keeper was a very odd man, Dorian decided with a shake of his head before quickly shrugging into the new robes so he didn’t keep The Iron Bull waiting.

Odd wasn’t nearly a strong enough statement, Dorian decided several hours later as he watched The Iron Bull block a shield bash leveled at him so hard that Dorian heard the snap of wood before spinning to deflect a sword strike.  Another turn and The Iron Bull’s free hand was striking out, quick as a cobra, to knock a knife out of his attacker’s hand, his shield coming up again as he spun to face the fourth opponent, this time a staff skipping off the shield just before it would have cracked into his skull.

That all of the weapons were constructed of wood, and that the sword lacked any sort of sharpened blade, did not lessen the fact that the group he was watching had been at it for hours, the four attackers occasionally trading spots with the remaining members of The Iron Bull’s mercenary team who were currently perched along the training ring fence, just waiting to be called in again.  The Iron Bull, however, had experienced no such break, instead the man seemed to have an inexhaustible amount of energy despite the fact that his chest was heaving as hard as any bellows, and that sweat lined his skin like a suit of shimmering armor.

Watching as The Iron Bull began yet another rotation, Dorian found himself tensing as the spy spun to face the willowy blond elf who insisted that she was _not_ a mage even though she fought with a staff and the smell of the Fade clung to her even when she wasn’t using her magic.  Dorian might be a dangerous thing, but far more dangerous was the wolf who believed itself to be a dog.

Even once The Iron Bull had blocked the mage’s staff and turned once again to the man bearing a shield, Dorian’s attention remained on the elf, his fingers almost itching with the need to call forth his own magic and shield his keeper.  Kaffas, how could the spy just turn his back on her as though she were no threat when any moment the wolf might lunge at him, his blood spilling out on the ground.  

Suddenly, it was no longer The Iron Bull that Dorian was seeing, but Arvaarad.

The way Arvaarad’s hands, always quick when issuing commands, had fallen instantly still.  The way his body had crumbled, dead before he hit the ground.  The scent of blood reaching Dorian’s nose at the same moment the ground ran wet with it.  Dorian’s own robes stained red as he hit his knees beside his handler, Arvaarad’s dark unseeing eyes still managing to remind Dorian of his complete and utter failure.

“ _Nooooooo,_ ” the word was torn from Dorian’s throat as he threw himself towards the ring, uncaring of the body he sent toppling to the ground as he leapt over the fence, his hands coming up offensively as he placed himself firmly between The Iron Bull and the threat.  Lost in some haze of memory and panic Dorian growled as his magic refused to obey him, his attempts to throw up a barrier failing as surely as the immolate he attempted to cast.  No.  No, no, no.  He would not fail again.  He _could not_ fail again.

In a mockery of his own attempts, Dorian felt the pull of the Fade as the mage opposite him threw up a barrier of her own, the woman’s eyes wide as she spun her staff once, her lips moving silently as she thrust the end of it into the ground.  Dorian’s eyes narrowed, she had cast a rune of some sort, he was certain of it, the question was where.  Scanning the ground before him, Dorian snarled and threw himself to the side, rolling back to his feet and preparing to lunge at her. He coiled to spring only to find himself stopped when an arm curled firmly around his waist and tugged him hard against firm flesh.

“Easy there, Big Guy,” Dorian heard growled in his ear, his elbow jutting back sharply and earning him a grunt from his captor.  “Damn it, Bas Saarebas.”

Dorian froze.  Kaffas, The Iron Bull.  He had just struck his handler and…and…had he actually tried to use his magic without permission?  The whimper escaped him before he could even consider stopping it, The Iron Bull’s arm tightening around him slightly before loosening.

Dorian slid right out of The Iron Bull’s hold, his body folding in on itself as he hit the ground, muscles tightening in expectation of the jolt of electricity the control rod would surely be giving.  He was so braced for the pain that he startled when instead he felt The Iron Bull’s hand settle against his back, right between his shoulder blades.

“Shhhhh,” The Iron Bull soothed.  “Calm down, Bas Saarebas.  Shhhhhhh.”

“Is he alright, Chief?”

“Does he _look_ alright, Krem?”  Dorian bit back a whimper at the frustration he heard in The Iron Bull’s low growl.  Dorian wanted to apologize, wanted to explain why he’d needed to protect the spy but before he could wrap his tongue around the words the other mage was already speaking.

“I don’t understand, I wasn’t going to hurt him.”

“I don’t think it was his own safety he was concerned about, Dalish.”

“It doesn’t make any sense, Chief.  He’d been sitting there long enough to know you weren’t in danger.  And what exactly was he going to do if you were?”

“Not sure I’m gonna get any answers out of him with you lot hanging around.”

“You sure it’s safe to leave you with him?”

Dorian didn’t have to be looking at The Iron Bull to know the look he’d find on the spy’s face when the big man only snorted in response.

“Yeah, alright, if you’re sure, Chief.”

Dorian expected The Iron Bull to question him the moment the others moved away so he was surprised when he felt the ground shift as the spy sat down next to him, his hip snug against Dorian’s leg, his hand still a warm weight on Dorian’s back.  As the silence stretched out between them, Dorian found his muscles relaxing, fear of punishment fading the longer they sat there.

In the end, it was Dorian rather than The Iron Bull who broke the silence.  “I am sorry for failing you, The Iron Bull.”

“Just how did you do that?”

Dorian shivered, shifting his hands nervously against the ground.  There was nothing threatening in The Iron Bull’s voice, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t still waiting for Dorian to make a mistake.  Drawing in a deep breath, Dorian began, “I struck you.  I threatened your kith.  I would have used my magic had it been available to me.  I acted on my own rather than being an instrument of your will.”

“Why?”

“Sataareth Kadan hass-toh issala ebasit, Hissrad.”

“In Common.”

Dorian sighed.  It was easier in Qunlat, surely The Iron Bull knew that.

“Bas Saarebas.”  There was no mistaking the warning beneath the growled words.

“Your mage, The Iron Bull.  She denies who she is.  How can the wolf be trusted when it insists it is a lamb?”

“So if I call you Antaam then you cease to be Bas Saarebas?”

“No, The Iron Bull.”

The hand that had been resting on his back shifted to pat his shoulder.  “Then trust me when I say that Dalish knows exactly who she is.  Her denying it is just…well, just something she does.”

_To call a thing by its name is to know its reason in the world.  To call a thing falsely is to put out one’s own eyes._ Dorian wanted to argue, to remind The Iron Bull of Arvaarad’s teachings, of the teachings of the _Qun_.  But who was he to question a member of the Ben-Hassrath?  Would a quill dare to challenge the writings of its bearer?

“Yes, The Iron Bull,” Dorian whispered, the words sounding as hollow as he felt.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sataareth kadan hass-toh issala ebasit. = It is my purpose to do what I must for those I consider important


	8. Questionable Motives

Dorian shivered as he followed The Iron Bull down a seemingly endless set of stairs.  He hadn’t been concerned when the spy had climbed to his feet and held his hand out, waiting until Dorian was on his feet to grunt, “Follow me.”

Dorian’s first thought was that The Iron Bull was going to return him to his room, but instead of heading up the stairs into the keep his handler led them down to the lower courtyard then up a set of stairs into the kitchen.  Just the smell of roasting meat and baking bread had Dorian’s stomach rumbling and he found himself hoping that The Iron Bull had decided it was time for a meal break, perhaps a tray that they could take back to Dorian’s room rather than having to brave the masses in the great hall.

But, despite a few flirtatious looks and more than one suggestively purred hello, The Iron Bull swept through the kitchen without pause and kept up a steady pace as he moved through a large room that might have at one point been a dining hall but now held only cobwebs.  Totally lost at this point, Dorian made certain to stay on The Iron Bull’s heels as the man headed towards a large wooden door only to pivot at the last moment and begin walking down a steep set of stairs.

Which led to Dorian’s current sense of dread, as the stairs continued to spiral down into the depths of the fortress, deep enough that the only thing Dorian could conceive of being down here were the dungeons or perhaps a torture chamber.

Suddenly, a memory of the brightly lit interrogation room in Par Vollen flooded Dorian’s mind.  Of light wood against dark skin, bright red blood pooling on the warm oak table and his own screams trapped in his throat.  Venhedis, if they could break him in a room empty of any standard instruments of pain, what could a member of the Ben Hassrath do to him in a room dedicated to the craft?

Habit more than conscious thought had Dorian stopping two steps behind The Iron Bull when the man finally reached the bottom of the stairs and paused, his head cocking slightly to the side.  It was only then that Dorian realized how quick his breaths had gotten, the sound of them echoing against the stone walls and leaving no doubt about Dorian’s rapidly rising panic.  Clenching his hands into fists, Dorian willed his breathing to calm, his heart rate to slow, even as The Iron Bull turned around to pin him with a questioning gaze.  “Bas Saarebas?”

Kaffas.  He didn’t dare lie to the spy, but to admit the cause of his distress meant admitting that Dorian didn’t trust The Iron Bull’s earlier words saying that he wasn’t in trouble.  Perhaps worse, it meant admitting that he had been speculating on his handler’s reasons for dragging him into the bowels of the fortress and it wasn’t Dorian’s place to question the Qunari standing before him.  Dorian could sense The Iron Bull’s frustration rising the longer Dorian remained silent and in the end he decided to hint at the truth and hope it would be enough.  “Forgive me, The Iron Bull.  It has been a long day.”

Dorian could have wept when a smile crossed the spy’s lips, his voice booming in the small area as he reached out to curl a hand around Dorian’s shoulder.  “Shit, ain’t that the truth.  That’s why I thought you might enjoy relaxing a bit before going back to your room.”

 _Relaxing?_  Dorian had to will his brows not to knit together.  Perhaps Hissrad would find relaxation in the punishment but…

Dorian’s thoughts were interrupted when The Iron Bull tugged him down the last few steps, The Iron Bull’s hand still curled firmly around Dorian’s shoulder as the larger man shoved him forward into a softly lit hallway.  There were doors lining the walls, four on one side, five on the other before the hallway ended with an arch leading to what was obviously a larger room.  Nothing about the space screamed ‘death and dismemberment’ to Dorian but he still required a little push from The Iron Bull to start walking.

His dread grew as covert glances into the first two rooms they passed that had open doors showed only the vaguest impression of perhaps a table lurking in their dark interiors.  The doors to the next two rooms were closed and then The Iron Bull was steering him into the next open door on the right.

“Stand right there a minute, let me get the torches lit,” the spy muttered, stepping back out of the room and returning with one of the wall torches.  Slipping past Dorian, The Iron Bull moved surely through the dark, obviously familiar with the layout of the room as he lit a torch set high on the opposite wall then another on the wall to Dorian’s right.

Blinking against the sudden flare of light, Dorian felt himself releasing the breath he hadn’t been aware of holding when instead of some insidious torture device, the center of the room contained a pair of large dwarven baths.  There was a second, smaller bowl set into the table that ran along the same wall as the door, a mirror placed above it, both the tubs and the basin fed by copper pipes inscribed with runes that Dorian knew would be to heat the water that was no doubt glacier fed.

“Well, what do you think?” The Iron Bull chuckled, turning the water on for both baths before slipping past Dorian once again to return the torch he was holding to its original place in the hallway.  Dorian was still standing in the same spot when the door closed behind The Iron Bull a few moments later, the spy’s hand rising once more to rest against Dorian’s shoulder blade.  “Everything ok, Bas Saarebas?  I thought you might enjoy a soak after the last couple of weeks.”

A smile twitched at Dorian’s lips when he realized that was probably the spy’s way of telling him he reeked.  Kaffas, now that he thought about it, he was certain there was still blood caked beneath his nails and Andraste only knew how long it had been since he’d had a bath that didn’t include moss and fish.  “Thank you, this was…kind of you.”

The Iron Bull laughed again, slapping Dorian on the shoulder before stepping past him to sit on the edge of a stone tub and begin to work at his boots.  “Thank Koslun.  For a minute there I thought you had something against water.”

Dorian found himself tempted to admit the truth.  Somehow he thought that The Iron Bull would find the thought of Dorian expecting to be led to his doom only to find a bathhouse rather amusing.  But Dorian had been wrong so many times before, daring to open his mouth to lighten a tense moment or offer comfort to a member of his kith only to be reminded in the harshest of ways that he was a thing whose opinion wasn’t needed.  No, he decided as he sat gingerly down on the edge of the rapidly filling tub opposite The Iron Bull, he would keep his own council and enjoy this brief moment of comfort.  The Iron Bull was his handler, not his friend, and it wouldn’t do to begin to forget that fact.

Reaching over to shut off the faucet, Dorian trailed his fingers through the water and had to fight back a shiver of pleasure as the warmth enveloped his digits.  Venhedis, the man might not be his friend, but he certainly was more indulgent than Arvaarad, who had insisted that if they were meant to bathe in warm water then rivers would run that way.  Snorting softly at the memory, Dorian quickly shed the rest of his clothes before slipping into the water up to his neck.  Leaning his head back against the stone, a maneuver complicated by the wide collar that bit into Dorian’s neck when it rested against the edge of the tub, Dorian’s eyes drifted shut as he allowed the warmth to wash through him only to startle a moment later when The Iron Bull drawled, “Lift your head up for a minute.”

Dorian’s eyes flew open to find the Qunari staring down at him upside down, a bemused smile on his face as he gestured to the small, folded towel he had in his hand.  Leaning up, Dorian smiled softly when The Iron Bull wedged the towel between his shoulder and the bottom edge of the collar, erasing the discomfort caused and allowing Dorian’s head to fall back in a more natural way.  “Thank you,” Dorian whispered, a little frown creasing his brow at the spy’s thoughtfulness.  Even knowing that the temporary acts of kindness could be intended to lower his guard, Dorian found himself allowing his mind to drift as The Iron Bull moved away to sink into his own bath.

Dorian was willing to admit that was possible that The Iron Bull saw this only as a preventative measure.  After all, even the sharpest sword required care if it was to continue to be of use.  Besides, even if the spy did eventually show his true colors at least Dorian would have the memory of this moment, warm and content, to disappear into.

 

Dorian was uncertain how long he laid there but it was entirely probable that he had drifted off for a bit because the water, while still warm because of the rune laid into the bottom of the tub, was no longer scorching hot.  Forcing his eyes open, Dorian startled when a glance to his right showed that not only was The Iron Bull no longer in his own tub but the tub had been drained.  Sitting up suddenly, Dorian cast a panicked look around, his heart threatening to beat out of his chest until he caught sight of the spy standing behind him, a thick cream colored towel wrapped around his hips as he took advantage of the mirror to shave.

Catching sight of Dorian watching him in the reflection, The Iron Bull spun around to face him, leaning a hip against the counter.  Pointing towards Dorian with the straight razor, The Iron Bull asked, “Want me to see what I can do with that mess of yours next?”

Dorian shifted his jaw, feeling how the bristly hairs of the beard he had gotten stuck with over the past several weeks rubbed irritatingly against the collar and nodded his agreement.  Arvaarad had preferred that he keep his face clean shaven, easier said than done when they ended up in the wilderness for weeks on end hunting Tal-Vashoth, but certainly preferable to the untamed mess of a beard he was currently sporting.

Seeing that The Iron Bull had laid out a cloth and soap, Dorian occupied himself washing the remains of the weeks ago battle from his body.  The healers had only been concerned with the areas they needed to work with and then, by the time he was conscious, none were willing to approach him for any reason that wasn’t related to his health.  Shit, even bathing with the kith had been a perfunctory endeavor at best, one needing to be done as quickly as possible to avoid freezing.

But this, this was pure pleasure, Dorian decided as he ran the cloth down the length of his leg, his toes flaring apart so he could work the pleasant sandalwood scented soap into every inch of his skin before slipping his leg back into the warm water with a little sigh.  Once he felt certain his body no longer bore any of the dirt and grime of travel, Dorian dunked his head beneath the surface, letting his hands move to the tangled mess that was his hair only to find that it was impossible to even run his fingers through it.

Popping back up to the surface he glanced cautiously back at where The Iron Bull was now pulling his pants back on and debated whether he dared ask…

“Need something, Bas Saarebas?”

Kaffas.  The spy truly saw too much.  Swallowing his pride, Dorian shrugged slightly, the motion mostly lost under the weight of the collar.  “Just wondering if you could perhaps shave my head while you were at it.”

The Iron Bull’s frown surprised Dorian.  Certainly Arvaarad had never thought twice about removing all the hair from Dorian’s head, it was simpler that way.  “Why don’t you let me wash it first and see what I can do.  I’d be a shame to shave all that gorgeous hair.”

It was Dorian’s turn to frown, though he acquiesced, allowing The Iron Bull to shift him about in the tub until he could get soap worked through his matted hair not once or twice, but three times until the spy could get his thick fingers through the individual strands once more.  In the end, The Iron Bull shaved both sides of his head but left him some length at the top, enough to fall just short of getting in his eyes when the spy rubbed vigorously at the wet locks with a towel.

“And you wanted me to cut it all off,” The Iron Bull scoffed, running his fingers through Dorian’s hair one more time.  “Who knew there was such a handsome man under there?”

Dorian scowled at The Iron Bull’s reflection in the mirror.  He wanted to deny the man’s words, to counter that a tool had no need of beauty, but right now there was a tiny spot deep in his chest that was practically glowing from the spy’s words. For the first time in years, Dorian found he didn’t want that to go away.

 

If The Iron Bull thought anything of Dorian’s silence, he didn’t say a word.  Not as they worked their way back through the kitchen to finally pick up not one but two trays of food before slipping across the great hall as quickly and quietly as they could.  Apparently they had missed the dinner rush so there were far fewer people lingering in the hall and none at all when they reached the courtyard.

Tonight, The Iron Bull avoided putting some of everything before Dorian, instead handing him a bowl full of a rich, meaty stew along with several of the rolls Dorian had already developed a taste for.  He was somewhat surprised to find that he ate everything before him tonight, as was The Iron Bull, judging by the amused grin he gave Dorian when Dorian sopped up the last of the stew with his roll.

The Iron Bull nudged a berry pie in Dorian’s direction and though he was full, he found himself taking a few small bites as the spy finished his own dinner.  He was unaware of beginning to doze until The Iron Bull’s hands slapping down on the table startled him back awake, his spine straightening as he cast a guilty look towards his handler.

“Go on, get to bed.  It’s got to be more comfortable than the table.”

“Yes, The Iron Bull,” Dorian whispered sleepily as he made his way toward the bed.

Dorian heard rather than saw The Iron Bull head towards the door, his own attention on removing his boots before he forgot why it was a bad idea to sleep in them.  “Get some sleep, I’ll be back to get you before I train with the Chargers tomorrow.”

Dorian’s head shot up at that, his eyes meeting The Iron Bull’s.  Kaffas, but he wanted to say that was a bad idea, wanted to request The Iron Bull let him just remain in his rooms where he wasn’t likely to threaten anyone important to his handler.  As if he could read Dorian’s thoughts, The Iron Bull’s eye narrowed.  “Got a problem with that, Bas Saarebas?”

Dropping his eyes slightly, Dorian sighed softly.  “No, The Iron Bull.”

“Good,” The Iron Bull grinned, his hand gesturing towards the stack of books that were sitting on the table by the bed.  “Maybe you should bring a book tomorrow.  The boys will be restless after today so training may take longer.”

“Yes, The Iron Bull,” Dorian whispered, waiting until the larger man shut the door behind him before turning to give the books a dubious stare.  Kaffas, why did his handler have to do that?  If he wanted Dorian to read one of the books he should have just told him which one.  Perhaps he would simply ask the spy in the morning if he had a preference for which book Dorian should read.  Unless they were already in preference order, then asking would only make him look foolish.  And what was it The Iron Bull had said the night before?  The books had been selected by someone else, what was his name?  Perhaps it would be better to ask him…

Dorian was asleep before the questions stopped flooding his mind.  

  


When he and The Iron Bull reached the training ring the next morning, Dorian was surprised to find himself greeted by each member of the Chargers, including Dalish, as if nothing had ever happened.  Judging from the grin The Iron Bull didn’t even try to hide, he had spoken with his kith at some point when he’d been away from Dorian.  One more thing to feel indebted to the spy for, on a list that was becoming endless.

And yet, as the days passed into weeks, Dorian was forced to admit that The Iron Bull was nothing if not consistent.  Sometimes those consistencies benefitted Dorian, like the way the spy had learned what food Dorian preferred and endeavored to bring those items at mealtime, limiting Dorian’s choices in only the best way so as not to overwhelm him with options.  Which brought to mind The Iron Bull’s unfortunate habit of wanting Dorian to make decisions.

Because the spy was also annoyingly consistent about encouraging Dorian to choose things for himself.  He would suggest Dorian read in the evening but not offer a hint about what he should be reading, nor how long he should spend doing so.  He would ask Dorian’s opinion on the weather when he stood directly in front of him and obviously knew the conditions as well as Dorian did.  

Dorian worked around the frustrations to the best of his ability, working his way through the stack of books he had been left in the order they were stacked.  Making certain the fire was always lit when he knew The Iron Bull would be coming by so he avoided the spy’s disapproving sighs.  And then came the day almost a month after he had first left the healer’s tent when The Iron Bull was unnaturally late in arriving with breakfast.  Rather than inconvenience the spy when he did eventually arrive, Dorian reached into the drawer that contained his robes and pulled out the first set that his hand touched.

When The Iron Bull finally arrived in a flurry of movement and apologies for being tardy, the spy had barely dropped the trays containing breakfast and small pots of tea onto the table before spinning toward the dresser.  His eye darted over Dorian briefly as he stepped past him only to pivot on his heels a moment later and give Dorian a more thorough perusal, a large grin slowly forming on his lips.  “Nice robes, Bas Saarebas.”

Dorian frowned as he looked down at himself, wondering if he had somehow gotten something put on incorrectly.  But no, everything was as it should be, the crimson robes paired nicely with light tan leggings.  “The Iron Bull?”

“Nothing,” the spy smirked, stepping forward to clasp his hand around Dorian’s shoulder.  “Come on, let’s eat.”

“You are an odd man, The Iron Bull,” Dorian dared to whisper with a little shake of his head.

It came as no surprise that The Iron Bull just laughed.


	9. What's In A Name?

“So, that thing catch rain or wot?”

Dorian startled, less from the inane question than from the way the bench shook as though it was about to collapse beneath him. A petite blond with hair twitching every which way and a truly questionable sense of style settled next to him.  Placing a thin piece of parchment in his book to mark his page, Dorian scowled up at the woman.  “I beg your pardon?”

The woman frowned at him, working at something in her teeth with her tongue as she pulled an arrow out of her quiver and tapped it against Dorian’s collar.  “This thingy, it hold water or wot?”

Before Dorian could think to answer she tapped at his collar again, the arrowhead causing it to vibrate and give off the most annoying ring.  “Oi, I kinda like that,” the woman muttered, tapping the collar in different spots several times, always quick to avoid Dorian’s fingers as they attempted to snatch the arrow away.

Finally, he resorted to flatting his hand against the collar, eliminating the vibration much to the vexatious pixie’s annoyance.  Or at least that’s what Dorian took her heavy sigh and rolling of eyes for, as she slipped the arrow back into her quiver and bounded over him to sit on the actual bench.  She pulled her legs up, slipping thin, freckled arms around them, before resting her chin on her knee.  “So, gonna tell me who you are or wot?”

What Dorian wanted to tell her was that he was fairly certain that there was no ‘o’ in what.  But that wasn’t his place.  “Bas saarebas.”

“Like them Qunari o’ Bull’s?”

Yes, because certainly the entirety of the Qunari populace owed its existence to The Iron Bull.  Dorian immediately frowned, biting down on his lip hard enough to draw blood.  The Iron Bull was of the people whereas Dorian was but a tool. He had no right to think such things about his handler.

“Oi!  Don’ be doin’ that, Mage Biscuits,” the woman chided, her hand reaching towards Dorian’s face instinctively before letting it drop.

_Mage Biscuits?  Was the woman mad?_ Dorian cast a slightly panicked glance at The Iron Bull, but the spy was still executing his daily dance with the Chargers: heavy on the attempted maiming, light on the fancy footwork, no attention to spare for Dorian. Turning _his_ attention back toward the woman sitting beside him, Dorian found her looking from The Iron Bull to himself and back again, her expression more thunderous with each change of attention.

When the woman spoke again it was without any of the levity her prior words had contained, one thin but surprisingly strong hand wrapping around his forearm.  “Don’ tell me...you don’ _belong_ to Bull, do ya?”

Dorian frowned slightly and shrugged.  “I am bas saarebas and he is Hissrad.  I am the instrument of his wishes.  He commands and I obey.”

“You mean you’re his  _slave_?!” The woman screeched, leaping off of the bench and storming towards the training ring before Dorian could even think of reacting.

Thankfully, Krem had been watching the entire exchange from his perch on the fence and he quickly placed himself on an intercept course, wrapping one heavy arm around the woman’s middle and pulling her back away from the ring.

“’draste’s sacred tits, put me down,” the woman growled, clawing at Krem’s armor as though she could possible do any damage to it.

“It’s not what you think, Sera,” Krem muttered, plopping her down on the bench and dropping a restraining hand on her shoulder.

“Wot you mean?  So Mage Biscuits here ain’t trussed up like a slave?  He’s not ‘the instrument of Bull’s wishes’?”

Dorian thought the warrior muttered something about ‘bane of his existence’ but he couldn’t be certain as the man had tipped his head towards the sky as though the clouds held some great secret.  “Listen, Sera, I know what it looks like but really…” Krem broke off, his attention shifting to Dorian.  “Hey, what does bas saarebas mean again?”

“Dangerous thing.  It is what the Qunari call mages because they see us as we are.  Threats to the safety of the people.”

“And the collar and cuffs?”

“Would you not collar a rabid dog?”

“Oh, Mage Biscuits,” the woman, Sera, muttered sadly, practically deflating as her anger dissipated.

“We good now?” Krem asked, patting at her shoulder and giving her a wry grin.

“Yeah, for now,” Sera bit out, her eyes narrowing at the warrior despite her words.  “Don’ mean I like ya pickin’ me up like I’m some sack of turnips or somethin’.”

“I shall guard my chair for the next month,” Krem chuckled, patting her shoulder one more time before heading back to resume his spot on the railing.

While Dorian’s attention followed the warrior, he could feel Sera’s on him, her hazel eyes attempting to peer into his very soul.  When Dorian grew tired of her perusal he leaned back and turned his own attention towards her.  “So way I understand it Mage Biscuits, that bas sabras stuff is what you are, but what’s ya _name_?”

“Are you not known by what you are?”

Sera laughed.  “Shit, _I’m_ not even sure what I am some days.”

“To call a thing by its name is to know its reason in the world…”

Sera’s snort interrupted him.  “Now _that’s_ a load of shit if I ever heard it.  I’m an archer most days, least I have been since I could hold a bow, don’ mean that my purpose in the world is to shoot arrows all day.”

“And yet, is that not what you do?”

Sera frowned, her mouth opening and closing several times before she threw her hands up in the air and sighed heavily.  “Maker’s balls.  Ok, so maybe I do shoot a lot of arrows, but I’m more than that.  I watch out for the little guy and stick it to the big guy when I can.  I make sure folks here get a laugh when they need it, and a poke in the arse when they need that.  Just callin’ me ‘Archer’ wouldn’t tell you any of that.”

It was Dorian’s turn to frown.  Sera’s words made sense, and yet what more was there to him than just being whatever his handler required?  But that was his _purpose_ , what else could there be?  Perhaps Sera was just confused, perhaps she wasn’t an archer but something else, some other purpose that had been hidden behind her skill with a bow.  Dorian found his thoughts drifting to _before_.  To the dangerous place when he used to play chess and go to plays and spend hours exploring the bookshops lining the road leading to the great Library of Minrathous.

No, no, no, these thoughts wouldn’t do.  “Shok ebasit hissra.  Meraad astaarit…”

“Whoa, Mage Biscuits…”

“My name is not ‘Mage Biscuits’,” Dorian bit out, his jaw clenched and teeth bared.

“Well I’m not callin’ you a thing, so until you give me a name, Mage Biscuits it is.”

“Fasta vass…”

“So, what’s it gonna be, Mage Biscuits?  I actually kinda like it, makes you sound all warm and squishy…”

“Venhedis, I am not a baked good, I am _bas saarebas_ …”

“Fine, you’re bat saber now.  But who were you before?”

Dorian growled, a feral noise that did nothing to deter the hellion before him.

“No worries, Mage Biscuits, it…”

“Dorian.  My name is…was Dorian fucking Pavus.”

Sera beamed.  “Right…not s’hard, was it?”

Dorian’s bark of laughter rang out; rusty, almost devoid of humor, and unexpected enough that it had The Iron Bull’s head swinging around to see if he’d actually heard what he’d thought he’d heard.

Almost immediately, the loud thwack of Krem’s shield connecting with The Iron Bull’s chest echoed across the terrace, the larger man stumbling back a few feet before eventually ending up on his ass.  Silence reigned for several long moments before Krem eventually lunged towards his downed leader.  “Shit, Chief, sorry.  You ok?”

“I’m fine,” Bull rumbled, his attention shifting to Dorian for a moment before looking back to Krem and accepting the man’s hand.  “My fault for getting distracted.”

“’ear that Mage…uhm, Dorian,” Sera chortled next to him, her shoulder slamming into his arm.  “You _distracted_ him.”

Dorian scowled at the archer, the air stalling in his lungs as he found himself waiting for the inevitable moment of panic.  For the second when his muscles would tense in preparation of the blow; his brain would begin scrambling to decide whether it was better to apologize to The Iron Bull now, or wait until the man approached him; to debate if falling to his knees would please or anger the spy.

_Except that moment would never come._ The thought was barely through Dorian’s mind before he acknowledged the truth of it.  The Iron Bull had proven the realization true not only in word, but also in deed.  How many times had Dorian knelt before The Iron Bull waiting for a punishment that never came?  How often had he dared to question the spy, bracing for the sting of the rod only to receive The Iron Bull’s laughter instead?

Dorian watched as The Iron Bull climbed to his feet, clasping his hands warmly around Krem’s shoulders and leaning in to whisper something to the younger man too quietly for Dorian to hear.  Because he was watching so intently, Dorian could tell the moment Krem accepted that The Iron Bull wasn’t angry, read the slight relaxing of the man’s muscles and smile on his face become genuine.

As if aware of Dorian’s intense scrutiny, The Iron Bull turned his direction once more, lifting his chin and grinning at Dorian as he called out, “You should try that laughing thing more often, Bas Saarebas.  It’s a good look on you.”

Sera’s bold laugh poured over Dorian, his own jaw dropping as the spy blinked at him in a way that suggested it was supposed to be a wink before stooping to pick his training shield up again and retaking his stance in the middle of the training ring.  Shaking his head slightly, Dorian settled back against the bench with a little snort.  A one-eyed spy, _winking_.  The man was truly a menace.

Watching as the Chargers slowly returned to their own positions within the training ring, their eyes watching The Iron Bull with a combination of concern and respect, Dorian realized that The Iron Bull might possess the control rod but that didn’t make him Arvaarad.  The Iron Bull had no need of fear to rule, because those that followed him did so from sheer devotion.

The frightening thing was, Dorian was starting to realize he just might do the same.

 

 

“So, Dorian Pavus, huh?”

Dorian froze, his fingers still curled around the kindling that he had been stacking just so in the fireplace.  When The Iron Bull had finally called an end to training and approached Dorian without mentioning the conversation Dorian had had with Sera, he had dared to hope that The Iron Bull hadn’t actually heard Dorian acknowledging who he had been before the Qun.

Even knowing that The Iron Bull was unlikely to respond with violence, Dorian still found his hand shaking slightly as forced himself to continue tending to the fire.  Reaching for the flint, Dorian whispered, “I have not forgotten what I am, Hissrad.  But the woman was so…”

“Annoying?  Insistent?  Annoyingly insistent?”

Dorian snorted, attempting to hide the sound under a cough but fairly certain, from the burst of laughter behind him, that he failed.  Still, The Iron Bull’s attempt at levity settled Dorian’s nerves, allowing him to get the fire lit and several good sized logs added to it before standing and turning to face the spy.

He was surprised to find The Iron Bull regarding him thoughtfully from across the food-laden table.  “So, which would you prefer?  Bas Saarebas or Dorian?”

Any attempt to mask his surprise at the question was ruined when Dorian stumbled over his own feet.  “Excuse me?”

“Your name?  Which do you prefer?” The Iron Bull repeated, the smallest hint of a sigh tingeing his words.  “We’ve already established Southerners don’t respond well to Qunari ways, so if you’d prefer to go by Dorian, it’s fine by me.”

Dorian frowned.  This was another of the spy’s infamous questions with no apparent wrong answer that nevertheless always seemed to have right one.  Because he felt certain one of his answers would result in that familiar easy grin of The Iron Bull’s.  Dorian just wasn’t sure which one.  His first instinct was to say ‘bas saarebas.’  There was a simplicity there, a sureness of self and place that offered comfort in his rapidly restructuring life.  And yet, if Sera’s reaction this afternoon was any indication of the responses he’d get to that name, perhaps it would be better to revert back to Dorian, even if he no longer knew how much of Dorian Pavus remained.

“Stop thinking so loud, you don’t have to decide this minute,” The Iron Bull grumbled, stabbing a roasted potato with his fork before waving it towards Dorian’s chair.  “Sit down and eat.”

Dorian bit back a sigh.  It was just like the spy to drop this sort of decision on Dorian and then insist he not think about it.  The Iron Bull might as well command the sun not to rise or the moon not to set.  “I shall endeavor to think quieter,” Dorian muttered before he could think better of it.

The Iron Bull just snorted, the spy’s full attention on his plate though Dorian could have sworn he caught the beginning of a smile twitching at his lips before he took another bite of roast.

The rest of the meal passed quietly, the silences between them having reached something approaching companionable at some point over the past month.  Even though The Iron Bull had said he needn’t make his mind up right away, Dorian still found his thoughts echoing around the wisdom of cracking open the part of himself he preferred to just think of as _before_.  

Before he knew just how much insecurity masqueraded as confidence.  Before he knew just how dangerous he was.  Before he learned how to be useful.  Before he accepted his place in the world.

A part of Dorian wished that he were back in Par Vollen, back where things were simple.  Where he was bas saarebas and had no need of masking himself beneath another name.  And yet the spy before him managed to be both Hissrad and The Iron Bull, one did not make him any less the other.  If Dorian was to be the instrument of Hissrad’s needs, could he do any less?

Suddenly, Dorian heard Arvaarad in his mind as clearly as if the man had stood here in the room beside him.   _Mastery of the self is mastery of the world, bas saarebas.  Loss of the self is the source of suffering.  Suffering is a choice, and we can refuse it._   “Yes, Arvaarad.”

Dorian wasn’t even aware he had spoken aloud until The Iron Bull looked up at him quizzically.  Drawing in a deep breath, Dorian said, “I shall be known as Dorian Pavus.”

The spy’s smile was instant and bright.  “Good to meet you, Dorian,” the Iron Bull grinned, his hand slapping down on the table and rattling the now empty plates.  “And now that that’s settled, I have one more question for you.”

_Of course you do._  Dorian sighed softly, the decision to take back his old name had drained him and in all honesty, he had hoped The Iron Bull would depart as he normally did once Dorian gave him his decision.  Reminding himself that a sword did not feel fatigue, Dorian asked, “Yes?”

The Iron Bull nodded towards the fire.  “You know living in Skyhold as Dorian might be easier if you had access to your magic.”

Dorian knew his eyes flared with surprise, his heart beginning to beat faster.  “The Iron Bull?”

The spy shrugged, leaning back in his chair until only the back two legs were still on the ground.  “I’m just saying, it’s not safe for you to keep taking the magebane.  Maybe it’s time to think about stopping.”

Dorian wanted to leap to his feet and refuse, wanted to pace and rage about how dangerous it would be.  The Iron Bull left him alone every night and Dorian still hadn’t been able to work up the courage to see if he even bothered to lock the door.  Under Arvaarad the only time Dorian had been alone was while he was taking a piss, and even then Arvaarad had been close enough to know the moment he finished.

Still, as he had acknowledged earlier, The Iron Bull was Hissrad, not Arvaarad.  His needs and methods varied.  Drawing in a deep breath, Dorian was pleased to find his voice steady when he spoke.  “Whatever you think is best, The Iron Bull.”

“Yeah, see, that’s not gonna work,” The Iron Bull grumbled, dropping the chair back onto four legs and pinning Dorian with a hard stare.  “It’s not _my_ magic. I need to know that _you_ feel ready to have it back.”

_Yes, yes I want it back_.  That the words were on the tip of Dorian’s tongue was startling when only a moment ago he’d been convinced of the opposite.  The Iron Bull was of no help, having returned to giving Dorian a disinterested stare the moment he finished speaking.

And yet the spy had been the one to bring the subject up. If there was anything Dorian had learned about The Iron Bull it was that he rarely did anything thoughtlessly.  The question was why?  Was this all some test created to judge Dorian’s commitment to the Qun?  Was there a reason The Iron Bull needed Dorian’s skills?  Was the Inquisitor wanting to take The Iron Bull out in the field and he needed Dorian at peak fighting ability?  Would the Inquisitor take The Iron Bull without Dorian if he refused to cease taking the magebane potions?  Would The Iron Bull actually leave him…

With a deep sigh, The Iron Bull stood.  Closing the distance between them he clasped Dorian’s shoulder much the same way he had Krem’s earlier in the day.  “Again, you don’t need to decide tonight.  Think about it and let me know.”

Dorian waited until The Iron Bull closed the door behind him to snort.  As if, now that the spy had put the thought into his head, he could do anything _but_ think about it.  Kaffas, even the fact that the spy wanted  _him_ to decide was enough to drive his thoughts for hours.  What sword was ever asked before it was sharpened?  What shield before it was reinforced?

And yet, what good was that sword if it remained blunted?  A shield weakened by battle was of no use to anyone…


	10. The Poison of Absolute Power

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the chapter that contains the memory of rape/non-con. You can avoid the mentions of it by skipping everything in italics or even skipping the entire chapter.

Bull listened for the door to latch behind him before sagging against it with a heavy sigh, every bit of frustration he didn’t dare show to Dorian now displayed on his features so clearly even a blind man could read it.  He’d known that offering Dorian the option to stop taking the magebane potion might be pushing it, but getting the mage to make any decisions at all was rather like pulling teeth and Bull had gotten caught up in the fact that he now actually knew the man’s name.

Fuck, hadn’t that one been a shock?  Bull had frozen the moment the word ‘Pavus’ had exploded from the mage’s mouth, after all, even on Seheron it made news when one of the Magister’s heirs disappeared into thin air.  Bull had always assumed the kid had either cracked under the pressure and was tucked away in a locked room somewhere or had been offed by a grieving relative only too happy to be named heir by default.

Then, before he’d quite been able to decide just who in the Ben-Hassrath had made the fucked up decision to have the heir to the consiliare for the Archon collared and stitched like a common Saarebas, Dorian had laughed and Bull had frozen for a completely different reason.  Because Dorian’s little huff of frustration had been rich and deep and had sent an unexpected shiver straight down Bull’s spine and right to his cock.

Which was so damn inappropriate that Bull had actually been thankful when Krem had…well, creamed him.  It wasn’t like Bull hadn’t noticed before just how attractive the mage was, or at least would be if he wasn’t wearing that soul-crushing collar around his neck.  The collar that only Bull had control over removing.  The collar that at any moment could be used to force Dorian to his knees, driving the very breath from his lungs and preventing him from being able to say no.

The cold stone walls of Skyhold faded before the strength of Bull’s memory and instead he was back in the stifling humid summer of Seheron.  It had been somewhere in his second or third year on the island, time tended to blur there but he knew it was only a short while before he became senior Hissrad on the island because he had been walking with the man who had been senior at the time…

 

_“Any word on the shipment of asaarash the Tal-Vashoth intercepted?”_

_“No, Hissrad-Iss,” Hissrad admitted.  “Though one of the Taarbas failed to arrive for his shift the following day and has not been seen since.”_

_“Specialty?”_

_“He was in charge of the Sataari.”_

_“Venshedan,” Hissrad’s senior ground out, opening the door to the Saarebas quarters and waving Bull through.  “Question his bunkmates and Tamassran.”_

_“Yes, Hissrad-Iss.”  Hissrad’s response was quick and crisp and followed by a sharp nod as he stood to the side and allowed his superior to lead the way.  Hissrad frowned as he watched Hissrad-Iss’ hand dropped to rest on the golden control rod at his side, the man’s pace picking up as they neared the end of the hallway._

_As they drew closer the unmistakable sounds of sex reached Hissrad’s ears.  The low moans and dull smacks of flesh meeting, the sharp scent of sweat and musk, all as familiar to him as his own face and yet something felt…wrong._

_Watching as Hissrad-Iss came to a stop before the open door of the last room on the right, Hissrad felt the skin on the back of his neck begin to itch the way it did when he was in battle and somehow an enemy got behind him.  “Hissrad-Iss?” he queried, his blood running cold at the feral grin on his superior’s face as the man took his first step into the room._

_“Come now Hissrad,” the man chuckled darkly, his eyes darting from Hissrad back to the scene in the room.  “Don’t tell me you’ve never partaken of a Saarebas.”_

_Hissrad’s brain froze, an ailment unfortunately not shared with his feet as they finally carried him into viewing range of the room.  There, kneeling on the floor was a Bas-Saarebas he had never seen before, his head bowed and limbs locked the way only a control rod’s magic could do.  The control rod in question was balanced on the man’s back, within easy reach of his Arvaarad who was plowing into his ass hard and fast.  As Hissrad watched, the Arvaarad switched off the control rod, allowing the Bas-Saarebas to let out a pained cry and draw in a single breath before the Arvaarad reactivated the collar and cuffs._

_Hissrad instinctively took a step forward, everything in his being screaming that this was not right.  Saarebas, Bas-Saarebas more than most, paid a heavy price for being cursed with their magic and every person under the Qun owed them their thanks to the beings that fought for their safety even while cursed.  This, this was…_

_Hissrad-Iss’ hand shot out and stopped Hissrad before he could step into the room.  “Wait your turn, Hissrad.  Don’t worry, the control rod makes their muscles so tight you won’t even know you’re not first.”_

_Hissrad hid his gasp under a cough, watching as the Arvaarad switched off the control rod again for a count of three before switching it back on again._ This is wrong. _The words clung to his tongue like burrs and refused to fall, even as the Arvaarad slammed back into his charge one final time and roared out his climax._

_Clutching the control rod tightly in his fist, the Arvaarad switched it off then smacked it hard into his Saarebas’s flank.  “What do you say?”_

_“Thank you, Arvaarad.”  The words were stilted and gruff, as though torn from a throat that had been screaming for too long, but the Arvaarad grinned and ran his hand through his charge’s hair affectionately before turning towards them.  “Go ahead, he’s all yours.”_

_Hissrad-Iss’ growl echoed down the hallway and Hissrad felt his stomach turn.  This felt wrong and yet who knew a Saarebas better than his Arvaarad?  Perhaps the man wanted it this way, perhaps it was his way of achieving relief.  Ignoring the little pit in his stomach that said he was lying to himself now, Hissrad muttered something about finding the missing asaarash and rushed back down the hall._

_Two weeks later Hissrad read the report.  The Bas-Saarebas had failed to cast his barrier when requested, both he and the Arvaarad had fallen to the Fog Warriors.  It was only luck that the rest of the kith escaped without injury._

_A week after that Hissrad’s superior disappeared.  When asked, Hissrad admitted that the man had a disturbing habit of taking evening walks in the forests alone.  Almost anything could have gotten him._

 

A door slammed, a sharp bark of laughter echoing down the hallway and tearing Bull from his thoughts.  Belatedly realizing his palm was curled around the end of the control rod, Bull snatched his hand away as though it were poisonous.  Then again, power such as the control rod granted usually was.  What made him think he was immune?

Sighing heavily, Bull ran a tired hand over his face as he shoved off the door.  Fuck, he needed some sleep.  But first, he needed a drink.  Maybe a lot of them.

 

 

Bull was up at first light, having skipped most of the drinking the night before in favor of brooding in his room.  Actually, it was the brooding that had driven him to his room in the first place because typically, the moment Krem caught sight of him, his lieutenant made it his task to drag the truth for Bull’s mood out of him. Some memories just weren’t meant to see the light of day.

Deciding that spending any more time in his room was just going to continue to deteriorate his mood, Bull dressed and headed for the kitchen, hoping that arriving early would mean that he could grab a stack of those fruit filled rolls Bas… _Dorian_ , preferred.

Bull reached the kitchens just as a fresh batch of raspberry filled rolls came out of the oven. It was nothing to sweet talk the baker’s assistant for the ten minutes that they cooled, and the exercise gained him a half dozen of the sweet treats in addition to his usual porridge, eggs, and ham.  Settling Dorian’s magebane potion down between the mugs on the tray, Bull hurried through the keep, hoping to reach Dorian’s room while the rolls were still warm.

Not bothering to argue with little part of him that kept insisting that spoiling Dorian could do nothing to bring back the Bas Saarebas he had failed to save, Bull opened the door to Dorian’s room, surprised to see no sign of the mage.  The bed was still made from the day before, the fire cold in the hearth and Bull felt a sharp twinge of worry as he allowed the door to slam shut behind him.

Before his mind could even decide where the mage might have gone, a deep thud came from the chair that sat before the fire and Dorian popped up, uncurling himself from the seat as he rubbed at his head.

Taking in the man’s wrinkled robes and the dark circles under his eyes, Bull frowned.  “Where you up all night?”

Bull could see the mage’s mind working, his own expression hardening in preparation of the lie he was certain was coming when, with a meek dunking of his head, Dorian whispered, “Not quite _all_ night.”

Snorting and tipping his head slightly, Bull moved to the table and sat the tray down.  “Want to try that again?”

Casting a glance at the cold fire, Dorian muttered, “Apparently I drifted off at some point.”

Bull chuckled and reached for the teapot, filling both of their mugs before setting the magebane potion down next to Dorian’s.  Settling into his own seat, he motioned the mage over.  “Anything you want to talk about?”

Dorian looked at him as though he’d just offered to cut his hand off to remove a splinter.  “No, just…” Dorian started, sitting down and reaching for the magebane potion only to pause with his hand hovering just above it.  Frowning at the bottle of purplish liquid, Dorian sighed and turned his attention toward Bull.  “You really believe I should stop taking it?”

Bull picked up his cup of tea and settled back in his chair, blowing on the hot liquid before taking a tentative sip.  “You asking my opinion? Or do you want me to tell you what to do?”

Dorian snorted, the sound drawing a grin from Bull even as the mage looked like he was having to forcibly make himself stay in the chair rather than bow at Bull’s feet.  “Sorry,” Dorian muttered, not quite meeting Bull’s eyes as he reached for one of the fruit filled rolls and plucked off a piece.  Popping it into his mouth, Dorian’s eyes drifted shut for a moment, the hint of a smile turning the corner of his lips before he added, “I know you said it was my decision, but...I would like your opinion.”

Bull nodded at the mage over his cup, taking another sip before pulling his own plate closer.  “Fine, my _opinion_ is that there is nothing to be gained from the magebane.  You’re healthy and seem to be adjusting to Skyhold.  You’re wearing your collar and cuffs, and I have…the control rod.” Bull broke off, clenching his mug tighter as he took another drink of tea, as if the beverage could somehow erase his distaste for the device.  Or the fact that he was forced to wield it.  “I see no reason to continue blocking your magic.”

Dorian nodded, continuing to pluck pieces of roll off and eat them even as his eyes remained focused on the potion before him.  Finally, with a little sigh, he picked up the bottle and sat it back on the tray, pushing it toward Bull.  “I believe I would like to try going without it.”

Bull grinned, feeling like he was the one who had been given the gift.  Not so much because of the potion, though he had to admit that the thought of no longer slowly poisoning Dorian was a good one, but because of those two little words.  ‘I believe…’

He wasn’t sure he’d ever heard anything sweeter.


	11. Freedom Isn't For Those Such As Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the delay in getting this chapter out, I'm finishing up the last couple of chapters of this fic now and they are proving more challenging than I had anticipated. I think I've got 'em on the run now so the posting every other day should resume :)

Dorian stomped his boots as he stepped into the hallway from the courtyard, his feet practically frozen in his boots after sitting out on his bench for most of the afternoon.  It had been almost a week since he had stopped taking the magebane and it seemed as though each day was colder than the one before it.  Kaffas, the first snow hadn’t even fallen and already he was miserable, he could only hope The Iron Bull had other accommodations for training once winter struck in earnest.

Then again, thinking of how warm The Iron Bull’s hand had been when it slapped down on Dorian’s shoulder only moments ago, he rather doubted the changing seasons would cause the spy even the slightest pause.  Pulling the blanket he’d had the foresight to grab this morning tighter around his shoulders, Dorian pushed into his room and tried to ignore the fact that his exhale caused a puff of smoke to rise.  Fasta vass, and he had thought it cold outside.

Shivering beneath his improvised cloak, Dorian flicked his fingers towards the fireplace before turning to slam the door closed as though the draft that constantly ran through the hallway could make his room colder in any way.  The wash of warmth hit him at the same time as the realization of what he had done.

Spinning, Dorian found a roaring fire crackling in the hearth.  A fire that he had conjured.  Conjured with magic that he had absolutely no permission to use.  Eyes darting from the fire to his fingers as though there was a physical string tied between the two, Dorian allowed the thought of lying to flit through his mind.

It wasn’t the first time he had the fire lit by the time The Iron Bull returned with dinner, after all.  He didn’t even have to  _lie_ exactly, just keep his damn mouth shut.  The Iron Bull would no doubt leave shortly after the evening meal was finished and when he came back in the morning Dorian just tell him that his magic returned sometime overnight.

Dorian flexed his hand, his gaze landing on the pinky which arched away from his palm rather than lying flush with the ring finger.  Dorian found himself drawn back into the memory, Arvaarad’s voice thick with disdain as it had been so often in those early days.   _“If you find your fingers so much more fascinating than Koslun’s teachings perhaps we should not have been so hasty to heal them.”_

_“Forgive me, I was thinking about the pain of re-breaking bones.”_

_“Pain which could have been avoided had you simply answered the questions in the first place.”_

Shaking his head, Dorian dropped his shoulders in defeat.  A dangerous thing he might be, but that did not mean he needed to become a liar as well.  No, he would tell The Iron Bull the truth and he would take his punishment like a man.  Again his eyes drifted from his hand to the roaring fire, resolve coursing through him to settle like a rock in the pit of his stomach.  Dropping to his knees, Dorian laid one hand over the other against the floor then folded himself so that his forehead lay against them, and waited.

 

“Got some of that ram stew you...”  The Iron Bull’s voice boomed out the moment the door opened, only to drop off the moment he caught sight of Dorian.  Even without being able to see the spy’s face, Dorian knew the look of disappointment the larger man would be wearing.  Could tell by the slight hitch of the spy’s feet that the man had decided to put down the dinner tray before dealing with Dorian.

The sound of the tray hitting the wooden table, cutlery rattling against stoneware as The Iron Bull released it perhaps a moment too soon, had Dorian tensing.  The scrape of a chair against the floor was followed by a low creak as The Iron Bull dropped into his usual spot, his elbow hitting the table with another rattle of spoons and forks then…nothing.

As the silence lingered on, a bead of sweat coursed down Dorian’s temple and across his jaw to cling to his chin for a moment before dropping onto the flagstone beneath him.  Dorian found himself biting back a bitter laugh at the irony, his tense shoulders shaking once before he could control the movement.

The Iron Bull sighed heavily,  followed by the spy kicking out one booted foot, landing the heel only inches from Dorian before crossing the second foot over the first.  “You going to tell me what brought this on any time before dinner freezes?”

The exhausted resignation he heard in The Iron Bull’s tone cut Dorian to the quick, his own words twisting on his tongue and forcing him to draw in a deep breath before attempting to untangle them.  “Forgive me, Hiss…The Iron Bull, I have used magic without permission.”

The Iron Bull snorted.  “It’s back, huh?”

“Yes, The Iron Bull.  I swear I didn’t know until I used it and…”

“You hurt anyone?”

“No.  I simply…”

“You _want_ to hurt anyone?”

“What?  No, of course not.  But I did not have…”

“Ok, listen,” The Iron Bull interrupted, sighing heavily.  “I can’t have this conversation with your curled up like I’m going to beat you any minute.  Get the fuck up.”

“But my punishment…”

Another snort.  “I’m quite certain you’ve already punished yourself more than I care to do.  Now, unless you’re planning on skipping dinner, get your ass into this chair. I’m hungry.”

Dorian remained where he was for several long moments, his mind trying to wrap itself around The Iron Bull’s apparent apathy over Dorian’s use of magic while he tried to tell himself that any pull he felt from the collar and cuffs was an illusion.  Reminding himself that the spy had never lied to him, Dorian slowly began to unfold, some part of him still prepared for the wash of stinging electricity over his skin that only the control rod could bring.

When his back was finally straight, his hands shifting to rest against his thighs, Dorian dared to look up at The Iron Bull, unsurprised to find the man staring back at him placidly.  All it took was the subtle tilt of the spy’s head towards Dorian’s unoccupied seat and the raising of an eyebrow for Dorian to scramble the rest of the way to his feet and over to the table.

Accepting the bowl that The Iron Bull placed before him, Dorian raised his spoon to take a bite only to hesitate, weighing the wisdom of his words against his need to know the truth.  “So you truly mean to let my transgression pass?”

The Iron Bull shoved a generous spoonful of stew into his mouth and chewed slowly, his attention never wavering from Dorian.  Finally, swallowing, he sat back and plucked the control rod off his belt and slapped it onto the table.  Dorian could feel The Iron Bull’s eye on him even as his own remained locked onto the rod, his breathing becoming fast and shallow as he waited for The Iron Bull to trigger the runes.  “Tell me, Dorian, do you crave the pain the rod provides?”

Startled, Dorian’s eyes darted up to The Iron Bull’s.  “What?  No, of course not.”

The spy shrugged.  “You wouldn’t be the first…or the last.  But if it isn’t the pain you seek, then why do you continue to insist that I punish you?”

“I must pay the price for my failures.  It is my purpose to do what I must for those that are considered important.  It is not my place to decide who or what, it is only my place to serve at your command.  To forget that is to edge closer to the madness that threatens all Saarebas.”

“And if I were to tell you that _you_ are important?”

Dorian’s spoon fell unnoticed from his fingers, his entire body beginning to shake as the memories from _before_ threatened to burst from box he had them chained in.

_“You are a Pavus, darling, that means that simply by existing you are more important than most.”_

_“You are a dangerous thing, the sooner you accept that the sooner you can be of assistance to the people.”_

_“Really, Dorian, the only matter of importance is that you pass your harrowing.”_

_“Doubt is the path one walks to reach faith.”_

_“A necromancer, Dorian, truly?  There hasn’t been one in the family in generations.”_

_“To call a thing by its name is to know its reason in the world.”_

_“Your wants aren’t important, Dorian…that you marry Livia, is.”_

_“To be separated from your kith is to sign your own death warrant.”_

_“Don’t be foolish, Dorian.  Your needs are secondary to the line’s continuance.”_

_“A sword has no needs, it exists to maim.  It cuts enemy and friend alike without care or conscience beyond what its wielder bestows upon it.”_

_“I am tired of your self-importance.  You will not drag this family through the mud, Dorian.  I will not allow it.”_

_“You are bas saarebas…”_

 

Dorian was pulled from his memories by two strong arms curling around him, only belatedly realizing he had slipped to the floor when The Iron Bull hauled him up and carried him to the bed.  Expecting the spy to set him down, he was surprised to find The Iron Bull instead settling himself on the bed, back against the headboard as he draped Dorian’s shaking body across his lap.  Dorian only became aware that he was chanting the third canto when the Iron Bull cupped one huge hand behind his head and pulled him into the crook of his neck, the Qunari’s head dropping to whispering soothing words against his ear, sounds that he couldn’t make out as long as he continued to speak himself and so he fell silent.

“Shit, I’m sorry, Dorian.  Didn’t mean to…you’re fine, you’re more than fine, you’ve done so well since coming here.  So strong, so brave…and I’m so sorry…”  The Iron Bull whispered, his words repeating as he continued to cradle Dorian’s head to him with one hand while the other ran slow tracks up and down his spine.

As surprised as Dorian was by the words the spy was speaking, he couldn’t deny that between the softly murmured apologies and the soothing strokes he began to calm, his body melting against The Iron Bull’s.  Allowing his eyes to drift closed, Dorian was uncertain how long they sat there before he felt The Iron Bull’s hand slow against his skin.  “You still with me?” the spy whispered, his head resting atop Dorian’s own.

“Mmmmm,” Dorian muttered, frowning slightly as he tried to convince his tongue to form words.  “Sorry.”

Dorian felt the spy’s chuff as much as heard it.  “Not your fault, I should have known better than to push.”

“Not ‘portant,” Dorian muttered, uncertain why exactly it seemed important that The Iron Bull understand that.

Dorian felt The Iron Bull sigh, but the spy didn’t refute his words, instead changing topic.  “You know, when you agreed to stop taking the magebane it was with the express purpose of being able to use your magic.  I _expect_ you to use your magic.”

“As you command…”

“No, as you see fit,” The Iron Bull grumbled, shifting Dorian around until he was sitting on the bed and not on the spy’s lap.  “Listen, I know this is different for you, but here I need you to fit in. Part of that is feeling free to use your magic whenever you feel the need is right.  As long as your intent isn’t to harm anyone within the Inquisition or yourself, you are allowed to use your skills.  Do you understand?”

Dorian knew the eyes he cast towards The Iron Bull showed every bit of panic he felt.  “But what if I make a mistake?  What if I can’t be trusted?  I haven’t used my…”

The spy’s hand settling on his shoulder stilled Dorian’s words.  “Then we’ll train, just as anyone else would with a new weapon.  Maybe limit your magic to stoking the fire for now?”

Dorian hated that the hand he curled around The Iron Bull’s wrist shook so hard the cuff rattled.  “And you’ll…watch me?”

“Like a fresh recruit with his first battle axe,” The Iron Bull chuckled, squeezing Dorian’s shoulder.  “Now, can I trust you to get some sleep without prostrating yourself over some other perceived slight?”

Dorian bristled.  “Arvaarad taught…”

“How many times do I need to tell you I am _not_ Arvaarad?” The Iron Bull snapped, the hand against Dorian’s shoulder falling away to run tiredly down the spy’s face.  

Dorian cocked his head slightly as he watched the larger man, the thought occurring to him for the first time that perhaps finding himself saddled with a bas saarebas was as difficult for The Iron Bull as having a radically different handler was for Dorian.  Reaching a hesitant hand out, Dorian rested it against The Iron Bull’s knee, his words for the first time coming from within rather than a learned response.  “Forgive me, The Iron Bull.”

The spy studied him for several long moments before finally nodding sharply.  “We’ll figure it out, Dorian.  For now, sleep, tomorrow we’ll train.”

“Yes, The Iron Bull,” Dorian whispered, his mind already racing as he tried to anticipate just what The Iron Bull would expect from him.  Somehow he thought that it would be more than simply watching his hand signals and casting barriers and for the first time in he wasn’t certain how long, Dorian felt a little flutter of excitement in his belly at the thought of being able to practice his craft.

Changing out of his robes into an oversized sleep tunic, Dorian tried to remind himself that he was bas saarebas.  A dangerous thing.  But that did nothing to extinguish the spark of excitement within...nor did it stop him from thrusting his hand out from under the blanket so that he could conjure a mote of mage light in his palm.

Watching the blue sphere dance against his skin he didn’t bother to fight the smile that curved his lips.  His magic was back.

 

 

“Well,” The Iron Bull drew the one word out into a full sentence, his arm sweeping out to encompass the half-moon terrace he had led Dorian out onto.  “Show me what ya got.”

Dorian only barely resisted rolling his eyes.  Not that he had expected anything else from the spy, of course, the man seemed to have an allergy to actually giving instructions.  “Which school would you like to see?”

The Iron Bull just shrugged and leaned against one of the crates stacked near the door.  “What’s your specialty?”

 _Necromancy._  The word clawed at the back of Dorian’s teeth, wanting to burst free before he swallowed it.  Dorian was well familiar with the Qun’s take on necromancers.  Might as well admit to sacrificing newborns to the old gods.  Taking a couple of steps toward the center of the terrace, Dorian spun the staff in his hand once before muttering a spell and striking the staff to the ground, a wall of flame ten feet high and twice that across springing from the flagstones like the rising dawn.  “Fire.”

A quickly cast storm spell quenched the flames and was followed by another wall, this one of ice and quickly decimated by an immolate that consumed the shards of ice before any of them could get more than a foot away.

“Showoff,” The Iron Bull chuffed, the faint hint of amusement in his tone telling Dorian that he was teasing rather than being truly upset by Dorian’s choices.

Still riding the high of actually being free to use his magic, Dorian grinned.  “You think that’s impressive, you should see what I can do with a staff blade.”

The Iron Bull’s surprised laugh echoed across the terrace, as the spy motioned for Dorian to resume his training.  With a smile of his own, Dorian threw spell after spell, hating how quickly his mana depleted even though he knew that his body was only starting to recover from the effects of the magebane.  Determined to get the most of his practice, he switched to throwing runes in an attempt to let his mana build again only to startle when he felt The Iron Bull’s hand on his shoulder.  “There’ll be other days.  No sense landing yourself back in the healer’s tent because you overdid it.”

Dorian snorted, knowing the spy was right even though he hated to admit it.  “It’s just been so long.”

“I know.”  The Iron Bull’s words were laced with the understanding that Dorian wasn’t just speaking of casting spells but also about having _choices_.  Dorian supposed if anyone in Skyhold could understand, it would be The Iron Bull.  He wondered if this was how the spy felt every day, still doing his job but free from the constant surveillance of Par Vollen.  Which only made him wonder how different The Iron Bull would have been in Seheron or even Kont-aar.

Another slap on his shoulder pulled Dorian from his thoughts.  “Come on, what do you say we head in and see what I can con the kitchen out of tonight?”

Dorian nodded, his stomach growling in agreement.  “Some more of that stew would be good, never did get around to eating it last night.”

“Your wish is my command,” The Iron Bull grinned, holding the door open for Dorian as he bowed deeply.

Knowing any further comment was bound to encourage the spy, Dorian settled for rolling his eyes as he preceded his handler into the building.

 

 

Dorian was midway through his kata when he heard the door open and a slight change to his normal motions allowed him to drop to one knee and spin, his staff held tight against his straightened arm and extending in an arc that would have severed several key arteries had he actually been fighting an opponent.  Instead, noting that it was the Inquisitor who had stepped through the door and assuming she had business with The Iron Bull, rather than him, Dorian completed his spin and raised back up onto two feet, twisting his staff as he went to change from an offensive stance to a defensive block.

Tuning out the conversation now occurring behind him, he dropped his shoulder slightly, rotating his wrists so that his staff could deflect an incoming blade before thrusting out the staff blade and yanking it up quickly in a move meant to eviscerate his opponent.  Another turn, this time on his feet with his staff spinning above him to build speed before slicing down through his imaginary enemy’s throat, Dorian squared off his feet and dropped the blade end of the staff to the ground before taking several long deep breaths.

“Damn, that’s quite impressive, Messere Pavus.”

A quick smirk ticked at the corner of Dorian’s mouth before he forced it away.  Harder to hide was the way his chest seemed to expand with pride at the compliment even though he reminded himself that indulging in such useless emotions was beneath him.  Avaarad would have called him maraas imekari for such vanity.  A child bleating without meaning.  A fool drunk on pride was easily drowned.

“Just Dorian is fine, Inquisitor.” Dorian said as he turned, sliding the staff back into the sling that The Iron Bull had brought with it when he had shown up at Dorian’s room almost two weeks ago, and thrown the bundle at Dorian with a smirked, “Well, let’s see it, Big Guy.”

That had been the start of Dorian reverting to the katas he had practiced in his youth, finally something from _before_ that could be of assistance to him now.  He couldn’t help but think that if the Inquisitor had been there that first morning she would have been far less impressed with his jerky motions that had almost resulted in him losing a finger or two.

“Well, Dorian, any chance I could convince you to show the other mages your training style?  Most of them came from the circles and shit, just getting training for them outside their specialization was difficult, not to mention actual combat training.”

Dorian cast a nervous glance at his handler, unable to entirely shake the feeling that he was being set up.  “That would be up to The Iron Bull.”

Dorian frowned as the Inquisitor’s eyes narrowed, her head swiveling to glare at The Iron Bull for several moments before turning back towards Dorian.  Stepping closer, she rested her hand lightly against the top of his that was clenching his staff.  “I didn’t ask Bull, I asked you.”

“Boss…”  There was no missing the rebuke in The Iron Bull’s tone.

Never taking her attention from Dorian, the Inquisitor remained still as a statue for several long moments before finally drawing in a breath and patting at Dorian’s hand once more.  “Perhaps not yet, but think about it, ok?”

Spinning to pin The Iron Bull with another sharp look, the Inquisitor headed towards the door and slipped through it without another word.  Only once the powerful woman was out of sight did Dorian shift his attention to where The Iron Bull was still lounging, more leaning against his usual crates than actually sitting, his huge silver hands curled against the wood so tightly his knuckles were white.  “The Iron Bull?” Dorian asked, hating that his voice actually broke at the end.

The spy closed his eye, his fingers curling even tighter to the edges of the crates until Dorian heard the snapping of wood, then with a deep exhale, that one silver eye was locked on Dorian.  “Sorry, she can be a little opinionated.”

Dorian stifled a snort, his skin practically crawling with discomfort.  The Inquisitor was the highest power within Skyhold, but The Iron Bull was his handler…to be caught between them reminded Dorian far too much of a pawn caught in the open on a chessboard.  “If you wish me to train the other Saarebas, Hissrad, I will.”

“Shit,” The Iron Bull growled, running his hand over his face.  “Listen, it’s not a matter of what I want or what she wants…”

The Iron Bull broke off, pushing away from the crates and moving to the far left side of the terrace before beckoning Dorian over.  “Ok, so, look at those mages,” The Iron Bull started, pointing out a spot on the battlements where several mages were currently throwing a variety of spells at steel targets.  As they watched, one of the mages said something to the rest of the group then walked off towards the tower, darting into the building as the rest continued training.  A few minutes later, two mages stepped out of the tower and took up spots along the battlement, their own training beginning.

Finally, after about a half hour, The Iron Bull turned his attention away from the mages training and leaned his shoulder against the merlon.  “So, tell me, what _don’t_ you see.”

Dorian frowned, his eyes darting from The Iron Bull back to the remaining mages.  A bead of sweat formed at Dorian’s brow as he tried to figure out just what it was The Iron Bull was looking for and finally, in desperation he muttered, “They don’t actually practice combat.”

“That’s cheating, the Inquisitor gave you that one,” The Iron Bull chuckled, gesturing towards the lower levels of the castle again.  “What I meant was that they don’t have cuffs and collars.  In fact, there is no one watching them.  The mages in Skyhold train themselves without oversight.”

 _Free._  The word flitted through Dorian’s mind like a bird for one brief moment, his mind reminding him of moments when he had felt so in tune with his craft that he had almost believed he could soar.  He had a hand stretched out before he was even aware of moving, the shifting of the cuff against his wrist reminding him that freedom was not for one such as him.  “I believe I’d like to return to my room.”


	12. Threats of a New Sort

Dorian was basking in the elusive sunlight that at this time of year was less about actual warmth and more about closing his eyes and remembering what proper weather felt like. That even though snow was now banked a foot high in the corners of the keep, spring would come again and bring with it actual warmth.  At least the terrace, which had over the past month become Dorian’s second refuge when outside of his room, remained coated in bright light for far longer than most of the keep.  Which is why it was the only place Dorian actually agreed to go alone, continuing down the hallway and out into the bright light while The Iron Bull took a detour to track them down lunch after the Chargers’ training was done for the day.

Hearing the door open, Dorian cracked open a lazy eye only to spring to his feet, startled, when instead of The Iron Bull he found a tall, impeccably dressed woman bearing a staff that screamed ‘Circle mage’ standing just inside the doorway.

The woman offered Dorian a slight tilt of her head, but remained by the door as she asked, “Forgive me for startling you, darling, but I have been hoping to speak with you.  May I join you?”

Dorian’s own attempt to nod in acceptance was hampered by the collar, leaving him feeling slightly flustered as he waved her over towards a nearby crate.  “Please do.”

“Thank you,” the woman responded, no hint of a smile gracing her lips as she moved across the terrace.  “I am First Enchanter Vivienne, Enchanter to the Imperial Court of Orlais.  And you, if I am not mistaken, and I so rarely am, are Dorian of House Pavus.”

“I am indeed.  Very pleased to meet you, Madame Vivienne.”  Dorian dipped his head again, managing to make the motion appear effortless this time even though his heart was beginning to do that thing it did when he thought it was trying to escape his chest.

Vivienne somehow managed to perch on the corner of one of the crates as though she were sitting upon the throne of the Empress herself.  “I apologize for not introducing myself earlier.  But your pet has proved remarkably adept at keeping everyone away.”

Only years of dealing with ‘polite’ Tevinter society kept the frown off Dorian’s face.  “Pet?”

“Why, The Iron Bull, darling.  Surely you have noticed just how protective he is of you?”

Dorian’s fingers tightened minutely against his staff, his expression still bland.  “I am afraid you are mistaken, Enchanter Vivienne.  The Iron Bull is my handler.  It is I who serve him, not the other way around.”

The woman’s smile was brief and devoid of all humor.  “Forgive me.  I am afraid I am unfamiliar with Qunari customs.  But for someone who is supposedly your better Bull certainly seems to spend a great deal of time catering to your whims.”

_Bitch._  Dorian forced himself to count to ten before responding, pleased that his voice retained the proper amount of nonchalance when he did speak.  “Perhaps it simply appears that way because you are indeed ignorant of the relationship between a Saarebas and his Arvaarad.  And yet, certainly if it were important to The Iron Bull, he would have included you in our conversations.”

Vivienne laughed then, and Dorian was left feeling that he had failed.  That she knew exactly how much he wished to unleash a spell that would turn her into a pile of ash right here on the terrace.  “So controlled, darling.  I couldn’t be sure, of course, whether the collar and cuffs were for your benefit or his.”  Vivienne slid from the crate and approached Dorian, stopping once she was within striking distance and whispering, “You are better trained than I had hoped.  Still, I can’t help but feel that you might be better served wearing the brand.”

“ _Vivienne_!”

The woman’s frown was so brief that had Dorian not been focused so completely on her he might have missed it.  The smile that replaced it was decidedly warmer than any she had graced Dorian with.  “Forgive me, Bull.  But I am entitled to my opinions.”

“Yes ma’am, you are,” The Iron Bull agreed with a nod and a grin that looked painful to maintain.  “Doesn’t mean that this is either the time or the place for it.”

“Of course, darling,” she agreed pleasantly, not even bothering to give Dorian another look as she turned her back on him and headed for the door.  “Perhaps we might speak another time?”

“I’m certain of that ma’am,” The Iron Bull grit out, his smile remaining firmly tacked in place until the door shut behind her.  Only then did he release a deep sigh and hurry towards Dorian.  “Shit, sorry about that.”

_You do have such delightful friends._  Dorian knew he should say the words, if only to lighten the guilt he saw hiding in The Iron Bull’s gaze, but he couldn’t quite get his mind to move on from the fact that the first mage he met outside of The Iron Bull’s kith believed he would be better tranquil.

Kaffas, it wasn’t as if he hadn’t seen them roaming around Skyhold, mages marked with the bright sunburst pattern on their forehead, hollow shells that had once been living human beings but who now existed only to bake bread or wash sheets or any of another dozen menial tasks that required no thought.  And she thought he would be better that way…

“ _Dorian_!”  The mage frowned as he found himself staring up as The Iron Bull lunged across the terrace, the tray containing their lunch crashing to the floor even as Dorian realized that was where he himself was now sitting.  Fasta vass, when had he…

“Shit, Dorian, you ok?” The Iron Bull questioned, his hands coming up to cup Dorian’s head, the spy’s hands resting lightly against the top edge of Dorian’s collar.

“She thinks I would be…”

“Hey, hey now, look at me,” The Iron Bull entreated, his hold on Dorian shifting until he could slip two fingers under his chin and tip his head up.  “Ma’am can be rather blunt and is always opinionated.  Works out well if you’re responsible for an entire circle of mages I suppose but that doesn’t always make her right.”

Dorian frowned, his eyes searching The Iron Bull’s for any hint that the spy agreed with Vivienne’s opinion.  “But what if she is…”

“She’s not,” The Iron Bull growled, his fingers tightening against Dorian’s chin for a moment before releasing him and dropping onto his ass on the flagstone opposite Dorian, his feet bracketing Dorian’s own.  “She’s just…not.”

“But…”

“Look, if I wasn’t certain about you I wouldn’t have suggested you stop the magebane.  At least not before I could get ahold of a blocking collar,” The Iron Bull admitted with a heavy sigh, his hand reaching for his horn and stroking the length of one a couple times before continuing.  “I’m just saying, there are other ways Dorian.  Ways that aren’t as permanent as the brand for fuck’s sake.”

Dorian considered his words.  He had certainly seen the collars The Iron Bull was talking about, thick leather beasts that sat so tall and close on the neck that the wearer could scarcely look anywhere but straight ahead.  He wondered what it said about his time in Skyhold that he actually thought he would prefer that to losing himself entirely.  At least within the bounds of the collar his mind would still be his own...how long had it been since he’d had that?

One of The Iron Bull’s hands reached out and curled around Dorian’s knee.  “You with me, Big Guy?  I promise, no one is going to take your magic from you if you don’t want them to.”

“Thank you, The Iron Bull.”  Smiling softly, Dorian thought for a moment that he might understand Vivienne’s comment about The Iron Bull’s protective tendencies.  Dorian had to admit the thought of it warmed him even if the spy’s concern was misplaced.  After all, it was he who was the dangerous thing, the one others needed protection from, not the one who required it.

Absently fingering the cuff about his wrist, Dorian found his attention riveted on the heavy, scarred band of metal that spun slowly against his skin.   _Do they really find them that threatening?_

“Some do, some don’t…”

Venhedis, had he actually spoken aloud?  Wasn’t it bad enough that The Iron Bull already pitied him even without being privy to Dorian’s inner conflicts?  Dorian frowned and tucked his head down, as though he could hide his entire self within the wide band of metal about his neck.

Bull’s hand stretched out to stop the cuff from moving, one thick grey finger curling inside the band to gently stroke at skin Dorian hadn’t even noticed was becoming irritated.  “People fear what they don’t understand, Dorian.  The mages because they know that your fate could easily become theirs, and the others because they don’t understand why you walk around bound while other mages run free.”

Dorian’s frown deepened.  “Is that why you keep me separate from them?”

Bull chuffed softly, his hand moving to grip Dorian’s other wrist and apply the same soothing motions to the chaffed skin he found there.  “Maybe I just like having you all to myself.”

Dorian arched one brow as he scowled up at the spy.  “The Iron Bull…”

Bull sighed and released Dorian’s wrist, settling back and resting his arms on his own raised knees as he regarded Dorian thoughtfully.  “Honestly?  Yes.”

Dorian bristled.  Not that he wanted The Iron Bull to lie exactly, but neither did he appreciate feeling as though he were some dark secret the spy needed to keep.  Kaffas, there he went again.  He wasn’t The Iron Bull’s friend, he was his charge.  If The Iron Bull thought he needed to be kept apart then…

Dorian’s thoughts were interrupted by The Iron Bull’s booted foot nudging against his own.  “Hey, whatever it is you’re thinking, you’re wrong.  It’s just that I know how important wearing all this,” Bull waved towards the cuff and collar, “is to you and I don’t want some idiot making you feel like there’s something wrong with that.”

“Is…is there…” Dorian broke off, the words sticking in his throat like they were trying to choke him.  It was as if he could feel Arvaarad breathing down his neck for just daring to have the thought.  But Avaarad _wasn’t_ here now was he?  He’d died and left Dorian behind in a world that made little sense without him.

“Dorian?”

The Iron Bull’s query was softly spoken but still caused Dorian to flinch.  Because there, there was the difference.  To Arvaarad Dorian had never been anything but a thing, of no more importance than the ox that bore the yoke without complaint and yet, from the first moment, Hissrad had treated him like more, like a _person_.  And surely a person was allowed to ask.  “Is there anything wrong with wanting to wear the cuff and collar.”

“Oh, Dorian,” The Iron Bull whispered, his eye shining with some emotion Dorian had trouble identifying.  “That would depend on why you want to wear them.  Because they comfort you? Or because you believe you deserve to be shackled and silenced?”

Dorian frowned.  “But you have never tried to silence me, The Iron Bull.”

“It would be a crime to silence a voice as strong as yours.”

“Do you not fear me?”

Bull snorted softly.  “Never, not even for a moment.”

“But you bear the control rod.”

Dorian was surprised to see The Iron Bull hesitate.  It was an uncomfortable look on a man who was usually so self-assured, a momentary aberration that was quickly dismissed as the spy admitted, “Because _you_ needed it, Dorian, not because I feared you.”

Dorian felt like he was standing at the edge of a precipice, one that would see him crash to the rocks below… “And if I said I don’t need it any longer?”

The Iron Bull’s smile was so bright Dorian felt that he was looking into the sun.  “Then I’d say we remove the damn things right now.”

And just like that, Dorian knew what it was like to fly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I know...Vivienne was a little harsh in this chapter, but all is explained in the future. At least as much as Vivienne ever feels a need to explain herself.


	13. Explanations and Excursions

Bull let the door to Dorian’s room slip from his hands, waiting until he heard the latch engage before allowing the smile that had been threatening to curl his lips.  Only the fear that Dorian might hear him kept him from letting out a shout of joy.  Four and a half months…it had taken him four and a half  _fucking_  months but the collar and cuffs he hoped to never see again were currently curled in his hand rather than weighing down Dorian’s neck.  Fuck, there had been times he had despaired of ever seeing this day.

And yet, no matter how badly Bull might like to walk straight to the blacksmith and melt the damned things down, he knew that today was just one more step to Dorian recovering himself.  And like any step, it could be made backwards as easily as forwards.  Veshedan, when he had found Ma’am with Dorian earlier he had expected to find that the woman had forced Dorian a half dozen steps back.  It was a testament to the ‘Vint’s iron will that he had instead chosen to free himself from the obvious bonds of servitude.

Dragging a tired hand over his face, Bull was tempted to go throw the heavy restraints on Ma’am lovely tasseled daybed.  But he had grown rather fond of his horns so, while he fully intended to find out just what Ma’am had been thinking earlier, for the moment he turned instead toward his room.

Again the blue blanket was pulled back and the key turned in the lock that opened the chest that held more of Hissrad’s memories than Bull’s.  Far too tired at this point to sift through _anyone’s_ memories, Bull pushed everything gently to the side and tucked the collar into the corner of the chest, the cuffs nestled inside it then slid the control rod down next to the other pieces.  Bull had barely had time to relock and cover the chest when someone pounded on the door between his room and the tavern.

“Hey, Chief, you in there?”

Bull debated pretending he wasn’t for all of ten seconds before sighing heavily and climbing to his feet.  Crossing the room, he opened the door to find Krem grinning up at him.  “So, is it true?”

“Is what true, Krem?”

“That the mage let you take off the cuffs.”

“What the fuck, Krem?  I just left him.”

Krem shrugged, his grin broadening.  “Skinner saw you in the courtyard, said it looked like you were carrying them.”

“Nosey bunch of bastards,” Bull muttered with a roll of his eye.

“Awwww, it’s enough to bring a tear to my eye,” Krem chirped, brushing away an imaginary tear.  “Little one’s growing up.”

Bull crossed his arms and stared down at his second.  “You’re an asshole, you know that, right?”

“Ah, but Chief, I’m your asshole,” Krem crowed, grabbing ahold of Bull’s arm and tugging him down the stairs as the door slammed shut behind him.  “Now come on.   The boys want to buy you a beer to celebrate.”

Bull held back for a moment, torn between taking the easy night drinking with the Chargers would offer and actually confronting Ma’am about her words to Dorian earlier.  The fact that his fingers were curling into his arm hard enough to bruise said it was probably better if he left the conversation until tomorrow.  Schooling his lips into a grin, he reached out to slap Krem on the shoulder.  “If you’re buying, I’m drinking.”

“That’s the way, Chief.”

 

 

_Hissrad stepped out into the early morning twilight and drew in a deep breath, heavy with the sweet scent of the tiny flowers that grew along the vines clinging to the walls of the dorms.  Flowers that were still wide open, soft white petals gathering every bit of moisture they could before the sun rose and forced them to curl up tightly until the next evening.  Over the past several years Hissrad had often thought about the wisdom of those flowers, wondering why his countrymen didn’t do the same and switch to a nocturnal existence instead of insisting on training during the heat of the day when a karashok was as likely to fall to sunstroke as to a fog warrior._

_“Damn it, Hissrad.  It’s too early for your ‘meditating on life’ shit,” Vasaad chuckled as he stepped out of the building behind the spy, his hands reaching out to grasp at Hissrad’s shoulders and begin steering the larger man toward the dining hall.  “How many times I gotta tell you, food first, contemplating the meaning of life later.”_

_Hissrad twisted, his arm reaching up and back to curl around Vasaad’s neck, pulling the smaller man down so he could grind the knuckles of his free hand against the spot between his short, curling horns.  “Maybe I was just trying to enjoy the silence for a moment before your loud ass woke up.”_

_Vasaad twisted, nipping at Hissrad’s arm.  “You love my mouth and you know it.”_

_“Eh, I suppose it has a use or two,” Hissrad chuckled, releasing the smaller man and jumping slightly when Vasaad’s hand smacked firmly against his ass._

_Taking a couple of steps ahead, Vasaad turned and began walking backwards in front of Hissrad, the frown on his face belied by the twinkle in his eyes.  “Asshole.  Just for that I’m busy for the rest of the week.”_

_“Ah now, come on, Vas, don’t be like that,” Hissrad mock pouted, quickening his step to catch up.  “You know I didn’t mean it.”_

_Just as Hissrad reached for Vasaad’s arm the other man turned back around and set off at a trot towards the dining hall, calling out over his shoulder, “Yeah, well, breakfast first, then maybe I’ll let you make it up to me.”_

_Hissrad laughed, but his eyes were locked on Vas’s ass and damn if it wasn’t a good view.  Breaking into a trot he wondered if he could convince the other man to rush through their meal…_

 

Bull woke with a shudder, his body surging upright and his heart instantly heavy even though his lips were curled in a grin.  Flopping back down onto the bed, he ran his hand across his face.  Fucking Vasaad.  Even after all these years he still missed the bastard, though he supposed if his mind had to screw with him at least it’d picked a good memory this time instead of the one of the last time he’d…

Nope, better to stick with the good memories, Bull decided as he climbed out of bed, his mind helpfully filling in the blanks on just how apologetic Bull had been that long ago day.  Of course, then Vasaad had reciprocated and…yeah, he missed the bastard.

Bull’s smile stayed with him until he reached the balcony that Ma’am had claimed as her own and found her reclining on the daybed, a book in her hand.  He was mildly surprised to find her actually up and holding court so early, but then a quick glance out the open doors onto her balcony told him that it wasn’t truly that early.  Apparently pleasant memories led to him sleeping longer than usual.  Maybe with his past once again under lock and key he’d have more of those...

“Good morning, Bull.  Come to chastise me for speaking cruelly to your pet?”

“Good morning, Ma’am.  And I thought I was his pet.”

Vivienne huffed a quiet little laugh and sat up, laying her book beside her and waving him towards the pair of chairs that Bull had learned from experience were stronger than they appeared.  Dropping onto the closest one, he grinned when it didn’t even make a token creak in protest then focused on Vivienne when she began to speak.

Rather than respond to his question, she simply asked, “Do you know what the single greatest threat to a mage is, Bull?”

He hadn’t risen to the ranks of Hissrad without learning to recognize a rhetorical question when he heard one.  He settled for leaning back as far into the chair as his horns would allow.

“If you spoke to the Chantry they’d go on and on about demons and blood magic, but in reality they latch onto those things because they are easy.  They are tangible threats that even the layman can see the symptoms of and so they are the ones the Chantry can hold up as proof that a mage is healthy or sick, strong or weak.  And yet, how many mages that have been put through their harrowing fall to blood magic when pushed?  How many mages have you seen in your travels willing _choose_ a demon over death when making a decision is forced upon them?

I would say to you that the true danger of a mage is, therefore, his mental fortitude.  Because in the end, the only truly good mage is the one who is strong enough to face death and not chose a deal with a demon, not succumb to the temptations of blood magic.”

“Those are strong words from a mage, Ma’am.  Does that mean we should be wary of you too?”

“But of course, darling,” Vivienne chuckled, her hand waving lazily before her.  “That is, after all my point.  None of us can be trusted.”

“Yet you aren’t tranquil.”

“Darling, I said I cannot be trusted, not that I don’t serve a purpose.”

Bull’s short bark of laughter was bitter and echoed heavily through the space.  “And yet you suggested that Dorian…”

Vivienne’s back straightened, her hands settling against each other to curl around her knee.  “Do you truly not think that I know the Inquisitor set him free?  That he asked…no, _begged_ , for you to put him back under the collar before he would even agree to step foot out of the healer’s tent? A man who doubts himself is a danger to those close to him, Iron Bull.  A mage that doubts himself is a threat to us all.”

Bull surged forward, only a healthy dose of self-preservation stopping him at the edge of the chair.  He wondered what it said that he had never felt that need to check himself when it came to Dorian.  “You’re entitled to your opinions Ma’am, but you’re wrong about Dorian.  After you left yesterday he made the decision to remove the cuffs and collar.”

Vivienne smiled, the motion both the truest emotion he’d ever seen from the mage and the most frightening.  “Well of course he did, darling.  He is an Altus, the scion of House Pavus and quite possibly the most powerful necromancer ever seen outside of the Mortalitasi.”

“But if you knew that…”

“What _have_ we been discussing, my dear?  The problem isn’t what I know to be true, it’s what _he_ knows.”

Bull slumped against the chair arm, his frustration leaving him in a rush and allowing a wash of incredulous respect to replace it.  “I may owe you an apology, Ma’am.”

“Ah, but they are such boring things,” Vivienne drawled, reaching for her book and shifting to curl her feet up on the daybed.  Opening her book, she laid the bookmark on her side table, carefully smoothing the leather flat before pinning Bull with a stare.  “Perhaps in the future you might remember that while I am seldom nice, I am almost never cruel.”

“Yes, Ma’am,” Bull assured her with a quick nod as he stood.  He might have misread her once, but even he knew when he’d been dismissed.

 

 

A week later, Bull was still finding himself thinking about that conversation with Ma’am every time he glanced up at her balcony while hurrying across the great hall with a tray for Dorian.  Bull had hoped that once the collar and cuffs had been removed Dorian might be more willing to explore Skyhold freely, but thus far Bull’s hopes had been in vain.

Which was why today he was arriving empty handed in the hopes that he might be able to convince Dorian to actually join him in the great hall for breakfast.  And ok, if pressed he wasn’t entirely empty handed.  He might have a half dozen of those sweet rolls Dorian preferred tucked into his pack just in case Dorian refused to accompany him.

Grinning, Bull knocked on Dorian’s door then opened it as he had become accustomed to doing, only to freeze when he found the mage facing away from him lobbing books onto the bed one after the other, a steady stream of Tevene falling from his lips.

Biting back a laugh, Bull shut the door softly and waited for a break in Dorian’s muttering to ask, “What did those poor books ever do to you?”

Dorian’s shriek of surprise had Bull biting back another laugh as the mage spun on his heels, one lone book clenched tightly in his fist.  “Vishante kaffas, Bull, are you trying to kill me?”

Bull’s eye widened slightly but he otherwise managed to keep his surprise at the familiar form of address suppressed.  Funny, for as much as he liked to profess loving the article in his name he’d never been so damn pleased to have it overlooked.  “Sorry.  I did knock but apparently you were,” Bull broke off and arched a brow at the pile of discarded books on the bed.  “…busy.”

Dorian flushed and ducked his head, his fingers picking at the corner of the book he still held.  “It’s just that I’ve read them all probably a half dozen times.  Well, all of them except the copy of the Chant of Light.  I must admit that one does wonders for putting me to sleep.”

Bull laughed and leaned back against the door, crossing one foot in front of the other.  “Well, I understand if you need to continue your tirade but I was hoping that I could convince you to join me in the great hall for breakfast today,” Bull paused for a second, certain from the way Dorian’s shoulders drew in that the man was going to refuse.  Then an idea came to him.  “We could perhaps stop by the library afterwards.”

In an instant Dorian’s stance changed, his shoulders squaring as he took an instinctive step towards Bull.  “Library, did you say?”

“What?  Did you think these were all the books in Skyhold?”

Dorian tipped his aristocratic nose a little higher.  “Well, we are in the South.”

Bull’s laugh echoed through the room as he pushed away from the door so he could open it.  “You, Dorian Pavus, are a snob.  And just for that, you _are_ joining me for breakfast.”

Any hint of amusement dropped from Dorian’s expression, the mage’s eyes dropping in a subservient way that Bull had honestly hoped he’d seen the last of.  Bull found himself taking a step towards the mage before he could stop himself.  “Dorian…”

“I…” Dorian began, only to break off, his brow furrowing.

“Dorian, you know I wouldn’t actually force you to join me.”

A small nod was the only response he got as Dorian continued to stare at Bull’s boots as though they held the secrets to the universe.  Bull waited several long moments before finally accepting breakfast would not be in the great hall today.  “Would you like me to bring back something from the kitchen?”

Dorian’s attempt at a nod was aborted half way, the mage’s shoulders squaring and his breath leaving him on a long sigh.  When his eyes finally lifted to meet Bull’s gaze though all the spy read in them was determination.  “No, I’ll go with you.”

Bull couldn’t have hid his grin if he’d tried, a fact that had Dorian rolling his eyes and shaking his head as he stepped past the spy to reopen the door.  “You’re ridiculous, you know that, right?”

Following Dorian out of the room Bull let the door shut behind him before nudging the mage in the shoulder.  “Hey, you’re the one who agreed to go with me.”

“Don’t force me to reconsider…”

The echo of Bull’s laugh followed them down the hallway until they stepped out into the Chantry courtyard where it had become habit for Dorian to pause and tilt his face skyward.  Watching as the mage soaked up the meager amount of warmth the winter sun offered, Bull wondered what Dorian would think of the sweltering days in the Western Approach.   Immediately the vision of a pampered house cat came to mind, chased quickly by the rather obvious sound of Bull’s stomach growling.

“Kaffas, I suppose we should go before you resort to eating the Inquisitor’s elfroot,” Dorian teased, the grin on his face slipping with every step they got closer to the door that led to the great hall.

“You know you don’t have to…” Bull started, cut off by Dorian’s fierce scowl.

“Go on, let’s get it over with,” the mage bit out, waving his hand towards where Bull’s was hovering over the door handle.

“It’ll be fine, Dorian.  Just follow me,” Bull assured him, his jovial tone perhaps a shade too forced considering the Dorian’s loud snort.

Still, Bull took it as a good sign when the mage actually stepped through into the raucously loud room behind him.  Right behind him apparently, Bull realized when he paused to look for a couple of empty seats and Dorian ran right into him, making Bull stumble forward a few steps.  Bull’s chuckle was swallowed up by the rest of the sound in the room, but that didn’t stop Dorian from smacking him in the shoulder anyway.

Thankfully, Bull spotted the Boss waving and was able to quickly lead Dorian in that direction where they slid into the last two available seats at her table.

“Good morning, Bull,” the Boss grinned, then shifted her attention to the mage now almost clinging to Bull’s side.  “Dorian, it’s good to see you out and about.  I’d like to introduce you to some of my inner circle.  Cullen, Josephine, Cassandra and Varric you’ve met, and that’s Scout Harding to your right.”

Dorian nodded his head, a smile plastered to his face, as a chorus of greetings rang out, but Bull worried that if the mage got any tenser he would simply shatter into a million pieces.  Casting a pointed look around the table, Bull drawled, “So, Boss, when do you head out again?”

“What?  Oh, uhm, not for a few days.  Scout Harding was going to brief me on what they found in the Frostbacks before…”

“I’d like to sit in on that briefing, Inquisitor,” Cullen interrupted.

Bull waited until conversation renewed around them to lay his hand over where Dorian’s was currently clawing into the side of the bench seat.  “It’ll be fine, Dorian.  No one expects anything of you.”

The mage managed a short nod, releasing his death hold on the bench to slot his fingers in between Bull’s.  “That’s better,” Bull whispered with a little squeeze of his hand.  “What would you like to eat?”

Even over the cacophony of noise in the hall Bull could hear Dorian’s breathing speed up, his fingers once again tightening, this time threatening to break Bull’s hand.  For the first time Bull began to doubt the wisdom of his plan, maybe Dorian needed more time, or perhaps lunch would have been a better choice, when the hall was usually less populated, maybe a table in the corner rather than...

“Tea.”

Bull startled at the soft sound, looking down to find Dorian staring back up at him, his expression resolute.  “What was that?”

“I said, tea.  I would like some tea.”

Bull released the breath he hadn’t even been aware of holding.  “Ok, tea it is.  How ‘bout one of those rolls…”

“I believe you owe me two,” Dorian whispered, the ghost of a grin curling his lips.

“Two it is then,” Bull practically crowed, the knot in his stomach loosening as he slid his fingers free from Dorian’s and reached for the basket of rolls and the pot of tea.  From there on he didn’t bother to ask, just offered Dorian little bits of all the food he’d learned Dorian preferred until finally the mage laid his hand on Bull’s arm and shook his head.

Shoving the last of his own roll in his mouth, Bull chewed quickly and swallowed before asking, “Want to get out of here?”

“Kaffas, _yes_.”  Dorian’s relieved sigh had Bull biting back a laugh as they quickly bid the table goodbye.

The transformation in Dorian the moment they stepped out of the great hall and into the rotunda that held the Skyhold library was instantaneous.  As though he could smell the ink-stained pages without even seeing them, Dorian’s entire body relaxed, his eyes brightening as they darted around Solas’ floor first before shooting up to catch sight of the bookshelves that lined the second floor.  

In an instant the mage was gone, the sound of his boots racing up the stairs bringing an indulgent smile to Bull’s face, only to hear those same boots race back down only a moment later.  Dorian skid to a stop in front of Bull, his hands on his hips as he grinned up at the spy.  “Well, are you coming or what?”

Bull wasn’t certain that he’d ever actually _wanted_ to spend time in a library before, but there was no denying that Dorian’s enthusiasm was contagious and Bull soon found himself being pulled up the stairs, Dorian’s hand tucked firmly into his own.  Then, even when Dorian released him so that he could pluck some tome about Orlesian botany from the shelves, Bull found himself continuing to follow at the mage’s heels as he flitted from bookcase to bookcase.  Every so often Dorian would scoff and read a passage aloud to Bull then proceed to explain why it was utter shit or question the author’s lineage until he would return the obviously inferior tome to the shelf with a disgusted huff or some short muttered bit of Tevene.

Yet, even with Dorian’s exacting standards, Bull’s arms slowly filled with the volumes that Dorian deemed acceptable, the stack growing until Bull was finally forced to clear his throat and mutter a soft, “Dorian.”

Rather than a response, Bull found another tome added to the stack which was now tickling his chin.  “Hey, Dorian!”

“Yes?” Dorian whispered distractedly, his fingers already stretching to pluck a book from the top shelf.

“ _Dorian!”_

Dorian spun around as a chorus of ‘shhhh’s’ echoed from around the rotunda, the mage’s eyes widening comically as he took in Bull’s predicament, the books threatening to spill from Bull’s fingertips any moment.  Then, rather than attempt to help, the mage laughed...the sound ringing out bright and clear through the silent room, setting Leliana’s birds fluttering nervously and bringing about another round of shushing noises from the researchers.

"Fasta vass, I’m sorry,” Dorian chortled, attempting to swallow his laugh only to have it erupt again as he reached for part of the stack Bull had accumulated.  

“You do know you can come back, right?”  Bull teased gleefully.

Dorian flushed, his eyes dropping slightly.  “I apologize.  It’s just been so long since I’ve had access to a library.”

_Well fuck._  Now Bull felt like an asshole.  “It’s ok, Dorian.  What do you say we take these to your room then we can go see if Krem’s figured out how to block yet.”

 

Bull should have seen it coming by the way Dorian juggled his own stack of books so that he could open the one at the top and begin to read it even as they walked back to his room, but he was still surprised when Dorian shyly asked if it would be alright for him to skip watching the Chargers train today.  Acknowledging that it was a good step forward, Bull quickly agreed and assured Dorian that he would be by later with dinner.  Dorian was settled into his chair by the fire before Bull was even out the door.

And if training that day seemed a little dull by comparison, Bull blamed it on the weather.


	14. First Steps

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Includes very minor references to self-harm and some definite self hatred

“If you get bored you can always change your mind and come find me.”

Dorian waved his hand dismissively, hoping that Bull didn’t notice the fact that it was trembling.  Holding himself still until the door closed behind the spy, Dorian only belatedly realized that the book he was supposed to be reading was upside down.  Obviously Bull hadn’t noticed or Dorian was certain he’d have heard about it, the Qunari seemed to take perverse delight in teasing him.  It wasn’t exactly that Dorian begrudged the spy his amusement, it was just that at the moment he feared that if he had to spend one more moment with Bull he might shatter into pieces too small to ever fit back together.  Pulling his feet up onto the edge of the chair, Dorian tried to hold off the shaking of his limbs by wrapping his arms around his legs and laying his forehead against his knees.

Venhedis, what had he been thinking?  Somehow all of the time he had spent with Bull had made him forget just how many choices there were to be made in a day.  What to eat, what to drink, where to sit, who to speak with, when not to speak, when to laugh, when to stay, when to go…

And perhaps worse than the decisions were the people…all of them watching him as though they had access to the inner workings of his mind.  As though they could see that all of those damn decisions they made each and every day without thinking were so far beyond him that he was frozen with indecision.

The sob that broke from his throat was barely human, but then what could he expect?  He hardly dared to credit _himself_ as human anymore.  Certainly all of those remarkably unremarkable people in the great hall watched him as though he were more beast than man.   He’d spent most of breakfast just waiting for the moment one of the Inquisitor’s inner circle questioned why The Iron Bull’s _pet_ had joined them for breakfast.  Kaffas, he hadn’t even been able to murmur a terse ‘good morning’ in response to their greetings and he had no doubt that without Bull’s presence he’d have fled before the first bite of food had even touched his plate.

Whimpering softly, Dorian grasped each of his wrists in the opposing hand, squeezing as tightly as he could and still it wasn’t tight enough...or heavy enough…or fucking cold enough.  Closing his eyes, Dorian allowed himself the illusion that the cold he pushed through to his palms was actually that of metal; that the pain of fingernails scoring his flesh was caused by the edge of the cuffs.  Not enough, never enough, but better than nothing...

Turning his head to settle his cheek against his knee, Dorian let his mind wander back to an easier time, when the only decision he had to make was to yield to Avaarad’s wisdom.

_Do not fear the dark.  The sun and the stars will return to guide you._

_You have seen the greatest kinds build monuments for their glory_

_Only to have them crumble and fade._

_How much greater is the world than their glory?_

_The purpose of the world renews itself with each season.  Each change only marks_

_A part of the greater whole._

_The sea and the sky themselves:_

_Nothing special.  Only pieces._

 

 

Bull precariously balanced the tray holding two dinner plates on one hand while he reached for Dorian’s door with the second.  It wasn’t so much that he feared dropping the plates as it was the two full tankards of ale he’d brought with him from the tavern, a peace offering of sorts for the fact that training had run late.

Nudging the door open with his foot, Bull had barely managed to curl his second hand around the tray once more when he realized that the room he was entering was pitch black.  “Dorian?”

A chill coursed down Bull’s spine when he got no response.  Dorian had never, not even in the first days that he’d been in Skyhold, missed dinner with Bull.  Letting the door slide shut behind him, Bull froze, not daring to breathe for several long moments until he heard the faint rasp of another person’s breath, then the distinct slide of skin against cloth.

Sighing softly in relief, Bull refrained from calling out again, assuming that the mage had simply fallen asleep without bothering to light the fire.  Bull couldn’t help thinking that for someone who bemoaned the cold both loudly and frequently, the mage forgot to stoke the fire rather often. Moving surefootedly through the space that he knew even blind, Bull first sat down the tray he’d been carrying then moved towards where he knew the flint and steel was kept on the mantle.

Bull set to work coaxing a warm flame from the wood that had already been assembled in the hearth, waiting until the fire was burning high before rocking back on his heels and closing his eye for a moment, letting the heat wash across his skin.  Satisfied that he wouldn’t return in the morning to find Dorian frozen solid, Bull dropped the flint and steel back into their accustomed spot and turned to...

 _“Fuck!”_ The curse was muttered so low it was practically a growl in Bull’s chest as he reached instinctively for the man huddled in the chair before him.  Stopping himself at the last moment, Bull’s hand hovered above Dorian’s head as it lay against his knees, the mage’s robes damp with tears that had been shed recently enough that the cheek Bull could see was still wet with them.  Intellectually Bull knew that Dorian was actually tall for a human, but the man who sat before him curled up tight into a ball reminded Bull more of a small child.  The urge to comfort Dorian was almost overwhelming, but fear of making the situation worse had him dropping his hand without touching the mage.  

Bull’s mind raced as he considered and discarded possible reasons for Dorian’s current condition, only to curse himself when he realized there was only one...he had fucked up.  Had been sucked in by one of Dorian’s masks, believing that the mage had been fine with the day’s excursion simply because _he_ had wanted it to be true.  He should have known that Dorian’s continued silence at breakfast meant that things weren’t fine, that the mage was feeling overwhelmed even if he had eventually relaxed and forced himself to eat.  Just because he had seemed pleased to be in the library didn’t negate the earlier stress, stress Bull hadn’t even thought to ask about.

 _Fix it.  Fix it.  Fix IT._  Bull’s mind was screaming at him so loudly it was a struggle to keep his growing sense of frustration out of his voice when he whispered, “Dorian?”

The mage’s only response was to wrap his arms even tighter around his legs.  It was then Bull noticed the fine sheen of ice coating Dorian’s wrists, the skin below them a livid blue.  Crouching down, Bull tried once again to gain Dorian’s attention.  “Hey there, Big Guy, whatcha doing sitting here in the dark huh?  Gotta admit I’m a little worried about you…it’d be nice if you could look at me.”

The seconds stretched out into minutes and Bull had almost given up hope for a response when Dorian’s head shifted and raised, his chin resting against one knee as he opened his eyes to regard Bull somberly.  Pasting a smile on his face that he in no way felt, Bull tipped his own head closer to the mage.  “There you go, Dorian.  I missed those grey eyes of yours.”

The strangled sound Dorian made was torn from his soul, a broken thing halfway between a gasp and a sob.  “Go away, Bull. I’m tired.”

“Yeah, I bet you are,” Bull agreed, his hands once again instinctively reaching out, this time towards Dorian’s hands, the chill of a frost spell tickling at Bull’s fingertips before he ever made contact with skin.  “It ok if I touch you, Dorian?”

Taking the mage’s minute nod as approval, Bull closed the last of the distance between them, his fingers curling tightly around the width of Dorian’s hand and wrist despite the fact it was like grasping a glacier.  “Any chance you could turn off the cold?” Bull asked gently, only to breathe a sigh of relief a moment later when he felt the intensity of the cold change, Dorian’s skin still almost frozen beneath his hands.

Instinctively wanting to warm the mage, Bull’s hands shifted around Dorian’s wrists and hands, tightening their grip until Dorian let out a little moan of protest.  “Fuck, sorry,” Bull muttered, instantly releasing the mage only to have Dorian reaching out for him.

“No, no, please,” Dorian whispered, the eyes that locked onto Bull’s pleading.  “It was good, strong.  I can’t seem to hold them tight enough…”

 _Fuck._ Bull didn’t have to ask Dorian what he was talking about to know that he was responsible for this too.  Both the desperation he heard in Dorian’s voice and the shame he saw lurking in the mage’s eyes.  Bull had been the one to encourage Dorian to remove the collar and cuffs, had been the one to insist that Dorian leave the room for breakfast this morning, had been pushing, pushing, pushing since the first moment they’d met.  The Boss had trusted Bull to put Dorian back together and it would seem all he’d managed to do was tear him apart.  

He had been careless with his charge, but he had to believe he could fix this.  He _wanted_ to fix this even if it meant going back to his room for those damned cuffs.  Veshedan, he really didn’t want to go back for the cuffs.  Sighing softly, Bull curled his hands around Dorian’s wrists, pleased to note that they were not quite as cold as they had been only a moment ago.  The change in the mage was immediate, his head nodding forward as his eyes shut, a slight shudder coursing through his body.  “You wanna talk about it, Big Guy?”

“Kaffas, no,” Dorian whispered, his tone so vehement it drew a little chuckle from Bull.

“Ok, no talking,” Bull agreed easily, wincing slightly as his knee protested the kneeling position after the day’s training.  Glancing toward the bed, he tightened his grip on Dorian slightly before whispering, “I have an idea, trust me?”

He took Dorian’s soft snort as agreement, letting his thumbs brush soothingly against Dorian’s pulse points before releasing him so that he could change his grip, this time slipping one hand under Dorian’s knees and the other around his back to lift him out of the chair, prompting a startled squeak from the mage.

“Thought you said you trusted me,” Bull chuckled softly, tightening his grip on Dorian as he moved towards the bed.

Bull thought he felt a slight nod but it could have just been Dorian shifting against him.  The moment they reached the bed, Bull sat down first, his back firm against the headboard then settled Dorian into the space between his legs, making sure his own much larger limbs were pressing against Dorian’s frame from hip to ankle.  He then pulled Dorian back to lean against him, Dorian’s back to Bull’s chest, before folding Dorian’s arms over his chest, Bull’s strong arms wrapping securely around him as Bull’s large grey hands curled tightly around Dorian’s wrists once more.

The moment Bull relaxed slightly, Dorian tensed against him, though the only true attempt he made to move away from Bull was in trying to twist his wrists within Bull’s grasp, a motion that stopped when Bull’s only response was to grip him even tighter.  Bull felt more than heard Dorian’s sigh, all of the mage’s muscles relaxing in the span of a single breath, his head dropping back against Bull’s chest.

Leaning down, Bull whispered against Dorian’s ear, “Better?”

He would have missed Dorian’s nod if his cheek hadn’t been laying right next to Dorian’s.  Bull’s attempt to loosen his fingers was met with a subtle shake of the mage’s head and a soft whimper.  “Ok, ok,” Bull whispered against the top of Dorian’s head.  “We’ll just stay like this for a bit.”

Bull could have sworn the mage purred, his body shifting slightly in Bull’s hold to obviously reach a more comfortable position before settling.  Letting his own head tip back to rest against the headboard, Bull allowed himself be lulled by the sound of the fire crackling as it slowly heated the room and the feel of their breathes slowly syncing until Bull was unable to decide whether it was his own breathing that had changed or Dorian’s.

Bull was closer to asleep than awake when Dorian whispered, “I’m sorry for disappointing you, The Iron Bull.”

“What?”  Bull’s sleep-addled brain took a second to process Dorian’s words, a frown forming on his brow as they finally sunk in.  Tightening his grip on Dorian, Bull whispered, “No, Dorian, you aren’t a disappointment.”

There was no missing Dorian’s vigorous shaking of his head.  “Of course I am. How am I supposed to assist you when I couldn’t even respond to a polite ‘good morning’? Kaffas, the decision between tea and water nearly undid me.”

“Dorian, no.  Fuck, I shouldn’t have rushed you.  It doesn’t matter to me if you eat here or in the great hall.  That has nothing to do with how…”

Bull broke off as, for the first time, Dorian actively struggled against his hold.  The moment he released the mage, Dorian twisted so that he ended up kneeling in the v of Bull’s legs, his eyes meeting Bull’s own with for only a moment before dropping them and whispering, embarrassedly, “I miss it.”

Bull frowned.  “Miss what?”

“The collar, the cuffs,” Dorian admitted, hands locking tightly about his own wrists for a moment before releasing to wave one hand absently in the air.  “Fuck, all of it really…not having to make any decisions.  Not having to see the way people look at me.  It was just easier not having to chance being _wrong_.”

Dorian’s voice broke on the last word, his head dipping lower in shame and Bull could have no more resisted reaching for the mage than he could have walked away from the fight that had cost him his eye.  Pulling the shaking man close and tucking Dorian’s head below his own, Bull growled, “Fuck, Dorian, you’re not wrong.  Nothing about you is wrong, do you hear me?  If anyone fucked up it was me…I look at you and I see such an intelligent, talented, _strong_ man and I just wanted you to see yourself the way I see you.”

“I’m not…”

“But you are,” Bull assured him, his hands running soothingly up and down Dorian’s back as the mage settled sideways in his lap.  “Fuck, you should see yourself when you train, all fluid grace and lethal prowess.  I swear you’re the most talented mage I’ve ever met.  And the way you stood up to Ma’am and proved her wrong by removing the cuffs and collar…so fucking strong Dorian.”

“But I _miss_ them…” Dorian hissed, shrugging off Bull’s hands once but not bothering a second time when Bull curled his hands around Dorian’s shoulder and squeezed.

“Fucking life is shit sometimes, there’s no shame in wishing it was easier.  Just like there’s nothing wrong with admitting to being overwhelmed sometimes and needing a break.  The important thing is to know when that break’s over and it’s time to get on with living.  And you, Dorian, you have done such a _good_ job at that, at facing your fears and then walking right the fuck past them and getting on with reclaiming your life.  Veshedan, Dorian…”

Bull broke off when Dorian laid his fingers across Bull’s lips.  “Could we just…not…talk for a while?”

Bull chuckled and went to shift the mage only to have Dorian press back harder against him.  “No, no, I didn’t say you had to go…”

Settling back against the headboard, Bull chuffed once.  “Whatever you want, Dorian…go ahead and rest.  I’ve got you.” 

 

Dorian woke slowly, even the bits of him that weren’t buried beneath a pile of blankets not showing even the slightest hint of being cold.  Burrowing deeper into the blankets he smiled for a moment at the unexpected treat, his nose crinkling at the faint trace of Bull’s scent on his bedding.  Fasta vass.  The Iron Bull.  Memories of the day before flooded Dorian’s mind as he sat up bolt upright and looked around, slumping back against the headboard when he found himself to be the only occupant of the room.

Eyeing the fire that was still burning brightly, Dorian wondered just when The Iron Bull had left.  Kaffas, had he actually broken down in front of…fuck, _on top of,_ The Iron Bull?  He knew he should probably be mortified at his behavior, but all Dorian could think of was the way Bull had held him.  Dorian couldn’t remember the last time he’d been held like that, like he was important and valued, like the act itself was enough.  Venhedis, in Tevinter his lovers would have looked at him as though he were crazy if he’d asked for such comfort even after sharing his body with them.

And then there were the _words_.  The Iron Bull had said he was strong, and graceful, and competent.  Tipping his head back against the bed, Dorian let his eyes fall shut as he went through Bull’s words once again from the beginning, but no matter how he tried to slant them he simply couldn’t detect any intended mockery or lies from the spy.

Instead, Dorian only felt an amazing sense of relief as he recalled Bull telling him that it was ok to feel the need to hide sometimes.  That feeling overwhelmed didn’t have to mean he was incompetent.  

_Fucking life is shit sometimes, there’s no shame in wishing it was easier._

Dorian’s laughter rang out through the room, his head shaking as he acknowledged just how… _Bull_ that statement was.  Perhaps even more surprisingly, Dorian found himself wanting to believe the spy’s words.  Forcing himself to think back on the day before he found himself willing to accept that even if the day hadn’t gone as smoothly as he might have liked, he had actually managed to sit through breakfast, and the library hadn’t been all bad.

“Alright Bull, if you think I can do this, I’ll try,” Dorian whispered to the room at large, slipping from the bed and heading towards the dresser with a new sense of determination.  He still didn’t think that he was ready to go to the great hall by himself, but he could probably meet Bull halfway and wait for him in the Chantry garden.

Humming softly to himself, Dorian quickly got out of yesterday’s robes and into a fresh set, the blue ones that Bull said complimented his skin.  Finding his boots took a moment and he realized when he finally found them tucked under the end of the bed, that Bull must have taken them off of him while he slept last night.  Kaffas, but he owed the man far more than just a thank you.  Without his words of encouragement Dorian would probably still be freezing to death, curled on the armchair.

But still, that was last night, and today was today.  And today, Dorian told himself as he buckled the last buckle on his boot and reached for his staff, today he was going to reclaim another part of himself.  Today he would no longer cower in his room…

Opening the door with a smile, Dorian had only taken the first step out of his room when he heard a gasp.  Turning, he found one of the housemaids staring at him as though she’d seen a ghost, a fresh set of sheets held up before her like a shield.  After several long moments spent watching each other, the woman stiffened her spine, squared her shoulders and asked, “May I help you, Messere?”

Finding it impossible to speak past the knot that had suddenly lodged in his throat, Dorian shook his head, unsurprised when the woman nodded briefly, relief in her eyes as she scurried past him as quick as she could.  Hand still on the open door, Dorian told himself he could go back in, that no one besides the one poor maid needed to know that he’d ever tried to leave.  And yet, to do so seemed like branding everything Bull had said a lie.

Forcing each finger off the door handle one at a time seemed to take forever, watching the safety offered by his room disappear inch by inch until the door finally closed with a soft snick of the latch that seemed to set Dorian’s heart beating at twice it’s normally rate.  Shutting his eyes for a moment he told himself that nothing had changed, that even now he could reach out and open the door, his room certainly still occupied the same four walls on the other side.

 _Take a step.  It’s just one step._ And yet he couldn’t seem to make his leg move.  Opening his eyes, Dorian looked towards the floor, visualizing his foot moving forward two flagstone squares and still he remained rooted.  Vishante kaffas…

“Hey, Dorian! Look at you…”

Dorian head shot up in time to see Bull step through the doorway from the garden into the hall, his long legs eating up the distance between them as an easy smile spread across his lips.  “Oh yes, look at me,” Dorian smirked, “frozen here one step outside my bedroom.”

“Hey, yesterday you would have been behind the door,” Bull shrugged, the smile on his face broadening.

Dorian snorted, distracted from his bleak line of thought.  “Your optimism is annoying.”

“Ah, it’ll grow on you,” Bull chuckled, slapping one huge palm down on Dorian’s back, right between his shoulder blades.

“Like a fungus.”

“It’s ok, you don’t have to pretend, Big Guy.  I know you really like me.”

“Like is such a strong word…”

“Would be lost without me?”

“Perish the thought,” Dorian snickered, finally getting his feet to cooperate and head in the right direction.

Bull just shrugged and fell into step beside Dorian, the pair of them sharing a companionable silence as they made their way toward the great hall.  It was only once Bull had his hand on the door handle that Dorian spoke again.  “Thank you, Bull.”

“Anytime, Dorian.  Anytime.”


	15. Pain, My Old Friend

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, that self-harm and self-loathing warning...all about this chapter, though mostly at the end once the Inquisitor enters the picture.

Dorian leaned against the half-wall that ran around the outer edge of the Chantry garden. His attention was not on the plants that were just beginning to show the first buds of spring but instead on the large wooden door he was determined to get through.  It had been a little over a week since his first attempt to leave his room by himself. He had resolved to make it all the way to where he knew Bull and Varric would be waiting today.  Kaffas, he could still scarcely believe that the author of ‘Hard In Hightown’ was not only a member of the Inquisition, but that Varric was amenable to both Bull and himself joining him for meals.

Meals Dorian wouldn’t be eating if he couldn’t get past that door.  

Okay, enough procrastinating.  What difference did it make if every person in Skyhold was on the other side of that door just waiting to stare at him?  Fasta vass, there had been a time when he would have _wanted_ to be the one everyone was watching.   _Yes, back when you were ignorant to what you really are…back in the before._

Dorian froze, waiting with bated breath for the usual signs of panic that thinking of _before_ would bring.  For the sweaty palms and the beating of his heart attempting to escape his chest, for his guilt and the shame that always accompanied it but instead he felt…nothing.

Of course  _that_ realization was enough to start his heart racing.  After all, how could he simply feel nothing?  He had spent the last three years believing that everything _before_ was wrong and now it simply wasn’t?  Dorian’s fingers tightened against the wall behind him, the breath that had been still in his lungs leaving him in a rush that had him gasping to replace it as he felt the first tendrils of panic set in.  He wasn’t ready, he wasn’t…his stomach took that moment to rumble so loudly Dorian was certain they could hear him from the balcony. A split second later Dorian found himself laughing.

Because kaffas, was he really going to have a panic attack over _not_ having a panic attack?  Far better to be concerned about there being no sweet rolls when he finally managed to conquer the door.   Certainly Bull would save him a couple of the rolls, but what if he didn’t?  Or what if Varric snatched them away when Bull wasn’t looking?  Fasta vass, that simply wouldn’t do.

Scowling, Dorian took the two steps that got him to the door, his hand curling on the worn metal still damp with morning dew and with one last deep breath, forced himself to open the door and step through.

 

 

Breakfast became a simple thing after that, as did adding the mid-day meal a few days later.  Dorian knew that at some point he’d probably have to attempt dinner, but he had noticed that the nobles that seemed to flock to Skyhold tended to hold court during that meal and he wasn’t yet feeling confident enough to brave _that_ particular gamut of misery.  Especially when he couldn’t be certain when one of those nobles might actually recognize him.  Venhedis, he wasn’t even certain at this point if he had been declared dead back in Tevinter or if his father still believed Dorian was simply being willful by avoiding him.  Bull had suggested perhaps the ambassador, Lady Josephine, might be able to shed some light on the situation but as of yet, Dorian remained ambivalent to the notion.  

Even though he continued to take dinner in his room like a recluse, Dorian had actually found himself enjoying the social aspects to the first two meals of the day, typically taken with some combination of Bull, Varric and less frequently, Sera.  He still found the petite archer loud and rather flighty, but Dorian was starting to realize that beneath all the sarcastic remarks and practical jokes beat the heart of a woman who cared deeply for those around her.  Dorian also had little doubt that if he were ever to voice those thoughts, he’d find one of those arrows of hers buried in his ass.

Chuckling softly to himself, Dorian looked up from the book that hadn’t been able to hold his attention to find that Bull must have called a break in training. This too was a new development, the fact that he had come down to occupy his usual bench of his own volition rather than attached to The Iron Bull’s hip. The man himself was currently leaning against the training ring fence talking to the Inquisitor while the Chargers seemed to have scattered.  

Tipping his head up, Dorian closed his eyes and let himself enjoy the soft warmth an early spring sun brought.  Holding his breath at times like this had become almost instinctive, his mind still torn between believing that allowing himself such moments of sheer indulgence was a waste and accepting that it was within his rights to want them.  Hearing The Iron Bull’s low laugh at something the Inquisitor said, Dorian found himself wondering if the spy ever experienced the same moments of self-doubt.

It was hard for Dorian to reconcile what he knew of the Qun to what he knew of The Iron Bull.  Not in the man’s work ethic; in Dorian’s experience the man was always working.  Training with the Chargers, attending to Dorian’s assorted issues, disappearing at night to write reports, and always watching and listening to everything that happened within Skyhold.  Dorian had been surprised at first to realize just how quickly people dismissed Bull as unimportant when the man was actually one of the most intelligent people Dorian had ever met.  He supposed that the fact they did was a testament to Bull’s prowess as a spy.

And yet, within all that work lay so many other moments that fell outside the Qun’s teachings.  Bull’s apparent calm with not only Dorian’s but also Dalish’s magic.  The ease with which Bull admitted to being a spy when asked.  The way he laughed and drank and just fucking enjoyed life, a talent of his that was just so far outside Dorian’s…

“Hey, Dorian…”

Dorian opened his eyes to find Krem and the quiet one, Grim, standing only a few feet away regarding him thoughtfully.  “Yes?”

“Chief’s called an end to training and me and the boys wondered if you might want to grab a drink with us?”

Dorian frowned slightly, glancing past Krem to see if The Iron Bull was still standing there. He assumed the man might have put them up to it, only belatedly realizing that it was just himself and the two Chargers standing in the courtyard.  Well, he supposed he should count the one guard standing near the entrance to the dungeons but that poor bastard was there every day, rain or shine.

Before he could come up with a response, Grim was nudging Krem’s shoulder, an entire conversation occurring between the two men waged in pointed looks and changing facial expressions.  Finally, Krem huffed and added, “Tavern’s usually pretty quiet this time of day if that matters.  Grim says it might.”

Dorian found himself studying the silent man, offering him a tentative smile that was returned in kind with a little grunt.  Despite the fact that it was the first thin olive branch being extended to him by Bull’s kith, Dorian fully intended to decline.  He knew that even if the tavern were completely empty of anyone save the Chargers now, it would fill to near bursting in no time.  He didn’t need to have ever stepped foot in the place to know that.  It was the only tavern in a keep of soldiers, that it would do a brisk business was a given and crowds were still unsettling to him.

Yet somehow, between the time he decided to politely decline and the moment his mouth opened, he found himself nodding sharply and saying instead, “I believe I’d like that.”

The grin on Grim’s face broadened, his nudge at Krem’s shoulder this time hard enough to send the warrior forward one step and gain him a sharp glare from Krem in response.  Grim just huffed a little laugh and waited for Dorian to climb to his feet before clasping his shoulder for a moment and nodding once.  As the three men headed towards the tavern, Dorian couldn’t help but think he’d passed some test he hadn’t been aware he was taking.

 

Dorian paused, comb still in his hand as he thought about that moment in the courtyard.  Looking back on that day a little over a month ago, he accepted now that it had indeed been a test, but one without a wrong answer.  The Chargers were like that.  Willing to accept someone new into their close-knit group once they felt that the person might fit, but equally willing to accept that the person might not feel comfortable joining their rather rambunctious, ragtag group.  Dorian acknowledged that much of the Chargers’ dynamic could be ascribed to The Iron Bull himself.  Somehow he had seen past the damaged exteriors of each of the Chargers and been able to bring together a kith that was incredibly talented and exceptionally loyal, not only to The Iron Bull but to each other.

Dorian smiled softly at his own reflection in the mirror, acknowledging that he too qualified as one of those wounded souls.  He wasn’t quite certain that he could call himself healed just yet, not when Arvaarad’s teachings still had a tendency to echo through his mind with disturbing frequency, but he _could_ admit that he would willingly follow Bull into battle even if it meant certain death.

Kaffas, wasn’t that a morbid thought?  And hardly one Bull would appreciate, Dorian admitted to himself with a snort as he resumed running his comb through his hair.  He knew that Bull and the rest of the Chargers were expecting him in the tavern, but he was determined to take another step forward in reclaiming who he once had been.

_A foolish, vain step,_ the little voice in his head insisted _._  Dorian just snorted softly and reached for the small tin of mustache wax he had found one morning sitting on his dresser.  There had been little doubt in his mind just what six foot six hulking Qunari had left it for him, but neither of them had mentioned the gift and it had gone unused until now.  Pulling the lid from the tin, Dorian took a moment to appreciate the faint smell of lavender that had been infused in the wax before swiping a bit onto his thumb and index finger and applying his attention to taming his mustache.

Dorian fussed with the cuffs on his robe as he walked slowly across the courtyard towards the tavern.  Silly as it seemed, he found himself nervous now that he was prepared to show off his hard work to the Chargers.  Which actually went beyond silly into the realms of ridiculous because when had styling his hair and mustache become ‘hard work’?  And why had he bothered at all if he was just going to be concerned about people commenting on it?  Perhaps it was just the idea that one of the Chargers might echo the opinion of the voice in his head.

“Kaffas, the odds are no one will even notice,” Dorian chided himself, setting his lips into a firm line as he strode quickly towards the tavern door and opened it before he had a chance to second guess his decision.

He was proven wrong the moment he entered the tavern and every eye in the place landed on him.  Dorian had gotten used to the momentary glance that the tavern’s patrons gave every newcomer, but this went beyond a glance into an extended perusal, one that would have made him extremely uncomfortable if most of the people looking hadn’t had a grin on their faces.

“Dorian, you look different,” the Inquisitor called out as she got up from the table she was sharing with the Cullen and Varric.  “I mean good…uhm, nice…that is…shit.”

Dorian chuckled, noticing as the Inquisitor got closer, that her cheeks beginning to darken with the first hint of a blush.  By the time she got close enough to embrace him in a tight hug, most of the other patrons had already turned their attention back to their companions.  The exception to that was Bull, sitting at the head of the table the Chargers usually occupied and watching Dorian with a mix of concern and some other emotion Dorian couldn’t quite identify.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to embarrass you,” the Inquisitor whispered in his ear before releasing her hold on him.

“I believe you’re the one blushing, Inquisitor,” Dorian teased, gasping softly in mock outrage when she slapped at his shoulder.

“I think Bull’s rubbing off on you,” the Inquisitor chuckled in response to his gasp.  “And I thought I told you to call me Evelyn…or Evie if you’d rather.  I get enough ‘Inquisitor this’ and ‘Inquisitor that’ from the nobles on the hill.”

Dorian chuckled again, shaking his head slowly.  “You do realize that you _are_ one of those nobles.”

“Now you’re just being cruel,” the Inqui….Evelyn pouted, adding another gentle slap at his arm.

“Yes, well you did just tell me I looked ‘good’, as though I were a tufted chair or a favored pet.”

Evelyn’s bark of laughter was in no way becoming to her noble line, but it was rather amusing, and her eyes were twinkling as she chuckled, “Now I _know_ you’ve been spending too much time with Bull.  And speaking of Bull, I swear I can feel his eye boring into the back of my head.  Go on, go join them and I’ll see you another time.”

“Most certainly, Evelyn,” Dorian agreed with a nod, the pair of them heading towards opposite corners of the tavern.

Dorian could almost have forgotten his earlier nervousness had the Chargers whistles not started the moment he got within five feet of the table, every damn one of them looking as pleased as if they had been in his room to do the styling themselves.  Well, all of them except Bull who for some reason looked more as if he’d been poleaxed.  Frowning slightly, Dorian dropped into what was quickly becoming his usual chair to Bull’s right, his voice soft when he leaned closer to the spy and asked, “Are you alright, Bull?”

Bull shook his head, obviously trying to clear his mind of some unpleasant thought, before turning it to look down at Dorian with a grin.  “What?  Yeah, fine,” the spy muttered gruffly.  “The Boss was wrong, good doesn’t cut it.  You look amazing.”

Dorian was surprised to find a blush heating his cheeks and he found his head dipping lower shyly.  “Thank you, Bull.  I thought perhaps it was time to use that wax you’d left.”

“I don’t know what…”

“You gave him wax, Chief?”  Krem interrupted with a cackle.

Bull scowled at Krem, his voice gruff.  “For his mustache, Krem.”

“Sure it was, Chief,” Krem whispered seriously, his brow arching suggestively for a moment before the entire table burst into laughter.

“You guys are assholes, you know that right?” Bull grumbled, his expression decidedly sheepish.

“Don’t worry ‘bout it, Chief,” Skinner called from down the table.  “Krem’s just jealous you’ve never given him any.”

“Awwwww, Krem, don’t be jealous,” Rocky crooned, nudging the now blushing warrior.  “I’ve got some old sword oil you can have.  Might even have a ribbon…”

Krem’s head hit the table about the same time another round of laughter rang out, Dorian’s own mixing with the rest of the Chargers as he shook his head slowly.  By the time that Krem had stopped blushing Bull had waved the serving girl over and had ordered a new round of drinks, which led to a rousing rendition of the Chargers anthem.  By the time that was finished Stitches had started telling the story about the time Bull had gotten stuck wearing a dress for a week in the Anderfels and Dorian found himself laughing as each of the Chargers put in their own thoughts about the event.

Stitches was just launching into a bit concerning the local druffalo when Dorian felt a hand land gently on his arm.  Startled slightly he looked over to find Dalish leaning towards him so that she could be heard over Stitches.  “I wanted to thank you for your thoughts on increasing my barrier’s range, I have been able to get an additional five feet over my old incantation.”

“Of course, happy to help,” Dorian said with a little nod.  He had noticed during one of Bull’s training sessions that Dalish was using a version of a healing barrier when training and had suggested perhaps one from the force school would give her greater coverage.

“You know, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you train.  I would like to one day if you were willing.”

“We could most certainly do that,” Dorian started, frowning a little as he tried to remember the last time he had actually stepped out onto the training balcony.  He was fairly certain it had been at least two…possibly three weeks ago.  The Iron Bull had gotten busy and he hated to bother him with his own selfish needs.  “I haven’t actually had much time to train lately.”

Dalish just nodded and patted his arm once before releasing him.  “I understand.  Just let me know when a good time would be and I’d be happy to make the time.”

Dorian nodded and sat back in his seat.  Kaffas, it had been ages since he’d actually trained in the presence of another mage.  It wasn’t encouraged under the Qun, especially for bas saarebas.  Dorian found that he quite enjoyed the idea of being able to go through his katas with Dalish.  Perhaps he could…

“You don’t need to wait for me, you know that, right?”

Dorian startled, pulled from his own ruminating to find Bull watching him curiously.   “Wait for you to what, Bull?”

“To train.  I’ve told you before, you’re free to use your magic here as long as your intent isn’t to harm a member of the Inquisition.”

Dorian frowned.  He was willing to accept the freedom of movement that Bull offered because the spy had certainly made Dorian aware that he believed people would be more willing to speak to Dorian than to him.  He could even understand the leniency with small domestic spells, most of them existed to allow expediency in day to day actions.  But to allow Dorian total freedom with destruction spells, to essentially trust him to know when enough was…

“ _Dorian_!”  Bull’s low growl was accompanied by a booted foot nudging at Dorian’s.

Dorian’s attention one more snapped to the spy.  “Yes, The Iron Bull?”

Bull huffed out a frustrated little noise as he shook his head slowly.  “I didn’t say you _had_ to train alone, just that it was an option.”

“Yes, The Iron Bull,” Dorian whispered, his shoulders relaxing slightly.

“Maybe I can clear an afternoon this week…”

Shit, now he was causing his handler additional work when his purpose was to do the opposite.  Forcing a smile to his lips he didn’t feel, Dorian spent far more energy than it should have cost to keep his muscles loose, his words easy.  “There is no rush, Bull.  It can wait.”

“Whatever you say,” Bull nodded, raising his tankard and draining the rest of the beer in one gulp.  “Not like you’re a hardship to watch.”

Dorian raised his own tankard to hide the blush he felt spread across his cheeks, thankful that by the time he lowered it again the conversation had moved on to something about Rocky and a thieving chipmunk.  Shaking his head fondly, Dorian settled back in his seat and let himself relax to the ebb and flow of the stories being told around him.

But mostly he wondered if he actually dared to follow The Iron Bull’s suggestion and train without his handler.  If that path truly led to freedom or only to destruction.

 

 

It took Dorian two days after that evening in the tavern to decide that there was no harm in simply walking out onto the balcony.  After all, it was less than a dozen steps from his bedroom door.  That didn’t change the fact that his hand shook as he reached for the handle the first time, and kaffas, when had this fear of doors manifested?  He had fought in a battle on the Nocen Sea, had survived his time in Par Vollen and engaged in too many fights with Tal-Vashoth to be able to count and now he trembled in fear over what lay beyond a closed door.

It was that frustration with himself that got him through the door and onto the balcony not only that day but the next and then the next so that by today he no longer hesitated to open the door and walk out onto that familiar half circle of space, the same three crates standing sentinel by the door.  Today however, instead of striding over to the battlement and watching the mages below train, Dorian stopped in the center of the balcony and slid his own staff from its sheath.  Spinning the staff once over his head, Dorian brought it down horizontal to the ground, his arms locked before him, both hands curled around the wood still warm from lying against his back.

Drawing in a deep breath, Dorian watched the staff’s shadow on the ground bounce slightly from the shaking his hands were doing, but he was pleased to note that he had yet to hear Arvaarad’s voice telling him that this was wrong.  Which was a good thing since it had taken just about every ounce of conviction he had to make it this far.

Reminding himself that The Iron Bull had told him that this was acceptable, Dorian opened his left hand, letting the staff right itself as the staff blade hit the flagstone with a quiet scrape.  Then, closing his eyes, he visualized the first kata before opening his eyes and following through on his vision.   Dorian’s left leg slid away from the right, his staff twisted again until he was crouching, balanced on his right leg, left leg and staff extended parallel to each other, his left arm extended, hand once more grasping the staff.  Straightening slowly, he spun his staff, in a circle before him, arms raising until he could spin it again behind him, blocking any attacker who thought to sneak up on him.

Time slipped away as Dorian advanced through his training routine, slow purposeful movements morphing into lightning-quick strikes and carefully uttered incantations.  Barriers and traps, immolate and lightning bolt spells mixed seamlessly with the hard jab and slice of his staff blade.  Sweat flew from his brow every time he spun in a circle, the wood of his staff slick beneath his fingers and easing the way for more complicated spells and blocks.

Lost in the joy of using his magic the way he’d been born to use it, at once again being able to practice his craft without limit or fear, Dorian smiled as he took one hopping step and leaned forward, jabbing the blade end of his staff into the crack between flagstones and using the natural flex of the wood to propel his flip, careful to tug extra hard with his right hand so his blade popped free and followed along with Dorian’s next spin, the fireball spell on his lips casting a ball of flame at the wa…vishante kaffas.

Dorian immediately stilled, staff clattering to the ground as he watched the Inquisitor dodge his attack, her movements fast enough to prevent the fireball from engulfing her though he winced as her shoulder caught the brunt of the spell.

**_This is why your kind cannot be trusted.  The wolf does not become a dog simply because you wish it so._ **

Dorian cringed at Arvaarad’s voice booming through his skull, threatening to tear it apart from the inside.

“Dorian, it’s alright, it wasn’t your fault,” the Inquisitor called to him, her fingers reaching up toward the charred mess of cloth and skin that was her shoulder.  “I should have…”

_If you turn a dog loose with the sheep and those sheep are slaughtered, who is at fault?  The dog, who is simply following his instincts, or the farmer who failed to muzzle the beast?  You will always be the dog, bas saarebas._

“Noooooo,” Dorian wailed, his hands coming up to clasp at the sides of his head as he shook it. He stumbled back as the Inquisitor stepped towards him.  He couldn’t be allowed to touch her, she mustn’t touch him, he wasn’t safe… _she_ wasn’t safe.

“Dorian, listen to me,” the Inquisitor continued, wincing slightly as she flexed her shoulder, her hand stretched out towards him.  “It was an accident.  Please stop, you’re going to…”

_As long as your intent isn’t to harm anyone within the Inquisition or yourself, you are allowed to use your skills._

Bull’s words brought a whimper to Dorian’s lips as he backed another step away from the Inquisitor.  This had been wrong, _he_ was wrong…

“Dorian…Fuck, please stop, you’re going to back over the battlements…Dorian, do you hear me?   _Fucking stop_!”

Dorian froze, unable to ignore the command behind those sharply growled words and he watched with panicked eyes as she took two more steps.  His need to obey battled with his need to protect her from him…how could she not see that she needed to be protected from him?  His heart threatened to burst from his chest, his breath caught in a tangle in his throat as she took yet another step towards him, her eyes full of concern.

“It’s alright, Dorian,” she whispered again, her words barely more than a whisper.

But it wasn’t alright.  Nothing was right.  He had foolishly thought that he could be something that he was not and he had almost killed her.  The words finally fell from his lips in a jumble.  “You can’t…I am bas saarebas.  A dangerous thing…you can’t…”

“Dorian, please, calm down…”

Another step closer to him.  She just wouldn’t listen.  He didn’t dare attack her which left only one option; with a low cry he darted around her and through the door.  A handful of steps later and he was rushing through the door to his bedroom, slamming it shut behind him and sliding the bolt into place to prevent anyone from following.

Standing in the middle of the room, Dorian’s fingers curled into fists, panting hard as his eyes darted around the room looking for something, anything that would fix this.  He had done this to himself.  He had believed himself to be something other than he was, had allowed his true name to be forgotten.

_You are bas saarebas.  We collar you so that all know you for who you are.  We bind your wrists so that you understand who has control._

The collar.  The cuffs.  Kaffas, where were they?  He stumbled to the dresser, flinging open the first drawer and tossing items from it to the floor, desperate to find those bits of metal that would protect the people from him.  Not finding them in the top drawer, he tried to close it only to rip it out and toss it to the side when it fought him before moving on to the second drawer.

Where were they?   _Where the fuck were they_?  He angrily tossed aside silken robes, heavy warm cloaks, comforting cotton smalls…of what use was any of this in muzzling a beast?  Muzzling…

_We mask your face so you know who to look to for guidance.  We sew your lips so you remember your place is to listen, not to speak…_

Spinning on bent knee, his eyes landed on the small sewing kit that occupied the corner of his night table.  Stumbling towards it he grasped at the wooden box, ignoring the way the table tilted, throwing a stack of priceless books to the ground, spines broken beyond repair.  Turning his attention toward the mirror that usually sat on the dresser, Dorian growled softly when he found it missing only to realize a moment later that it had become a casualty of his search and had shattered against the stone floor.

Grabbing for the largest piece left, Dorian ignored the bite of broken glass into his palm, focused instead on leaning the shard against a small stack of books that sat on the table he and Bull usually ate on.   _Bull_ , Dorian thought, a small shiver coursing through him at the realization of how disappointed the spy would be in him.

_So, which would you prefer?  Bas Saarebas or Dorian?_

_Excuse me?_

_Your name?  Which do you prefer?  We’ve already established Southerners don’t respond well to Qunari ways, so if you’d prefer to go by Dorian, it’s fine by me._

_I shall be known as Dorian Pavus._

“Bas saarebas, I am Bas saarebas...bas saarebas, I am bas saarebas…” Dorian murmured as he dropped onto a chair and opened the wooden box. The words echoed in whispers through the room, bouncing off of stone walls to return to Dorian’s ear as he pulled out the thread and cut off a length of it.  His shaking hands made threading the needle a challenge but as he finally caught sight of himself in the sliver of glass, Dorian felt a strange calm settle over him.

The scars from his prior bindings made a simple pattern against his copper skin, something even a thing like him could follow without mistake.  Pain flared as blood ran red where the needle pierced his skin, the pain as familiar to him as an old friend, urging him to continue.

When he pulled the thread he made the stitches tight.  There could be no mistakes this time, no chance for him to utter the words that would destroy another.  What need had a thing for speech?

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for my slow response to comments for the last couple of chapters, I am out of town and omg, updating by ipad is a pain. I can say that I have the last two chapters saved to Ao3 in draft so once I have a chance to proof them they should be up in a timely manner. As always, thanks for reading! :)


	16. There To Catch You When You Fall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Descriptions of self-inflicted wounds.

Bull scowled as he ran his thumb across the edge of his axe blade, still able to feel a slight divot from where he’d cleaved one of the training dummies and caught it on a nail.  Damn it, if he had to take the blade back much further, it was going to unbalance the two sides…which meant he’d have to repeat all his work on the other axe head all because he’d been careless.  He hated being…

Bull surged to his feet as his bedroom door was thrown open, the axe in his lap hitting the ground at the same time as the door slammed into the wall.  Hand already snatching his smaller hand axe from his belt, Bull paused when he realized it was the Inquisitor currently standing in his doorway, chest heaving as though she’d run across the whole of Ferelden.

Moving his hand away from his weapon Bull continued towards her, taking in the wild look in her eyes and her disheveled hair.  “Boss?”

“Bull, I need you,” the Inquisitor gasped, her voice thready.  “It was an accident and it was my fault and…”

“Whoa, calm down, Boss,” Bull entreated as he got close enough to focus on the nasty looking burn that curled around her shoulder and stretched down the upper portion of her arm.  “What happened?”

“That’s what I’m telling you, I went to see Dorian and…”

“ _Dorian did this_?”  Bull growled, not certain even in his own mind if he was angry or just incredulous.  He could hardly…

His thoughts were interrupted when the Inquisitor grasped his arms, her fingers pressing hard enough to leave bruises as she attempted to shake him.  “It was an accident.  You don’t understand, he ran off and locked himself in his room.  I couldn’t get in…”

“Shit.”

“Bull you have to help him….he was…it was…I couldn’t…”

Bull nodded sharply and broke free of her grip, raising one of his own hands to gently clasp the Inquisitor’s uninjured shoulder.  “Alright, Boss, alright.  You need to get to the healer, I’ll go check on Dorian.”

Bull wasn’t surprised when she fell into step beside him as they stepped out of the room, but when she didn’t break off to head towards the healing tent when they hit the bottom of the stairs he cast her a disapproving look.  “Boss…”

“I’m fine,” the Inquisitor growled back, scowling up at him as she tipped her chin up defiantly and continued to walk, leaving him to be the one to play catchup.  “Better than Dorian at least.  He kept saying that he wasn’t safe…that he was a dangerous thing that couldn’t be trusted.  Kept calling himself a bas saren…”

Bull’s feet stopped moving, a shiver coursing through him as though the blood in his body had been replaced by ice.  “Bas Saarebas?”  Bull growled, knowing even before she turned around and nodded that he was right.  Fuck.  He really had hoped to be wrong.

Bull’s body might feel like it was encased in ice, but his brain was blazing down a dark road..  Images flashed through it of Dorian using the staff blade that Bull had given him to harm himself; of Dorian setting fire to the entire room then calmly sitting down in the middle of it and waiting to be consumed, of Dorian’s bright, laughing eyes dull and vacant as he locked himself back behind the mask he’d worn when Bull first met him.  The mask Bull’s own people had created.   _Fuck._

Resuming his trek toward the keep at double the speed now, he caught the Boss by her good arm and pulled her with him.  “Need to know _exactly_ what happened, Boss.  The quicker the better.”

By the time they reached the hallway that led to Dorian’s room Bull decided that his last thought was likely to be closest to the truth, if only because Dorian believed himself to be Bull’s charge, his responsibility, his _tool_.  Fuck, thinking that way made Bull feel like an asshole, but it brought with it a measure of dark comfort also.  Because a Dorian who believed himself servant to Bull’s whims would not dare to harm Bull’s property.

His long strides ate up the remaining distance to Dorian’s room in only a few steps. He cursed himself the whole way for dismissing the guard that had originally been stationed outside Dorian’s door, even though that decision had been made months ago.  Veshedan, had he done anything except fail Dorian at every damned opportunity?

Bull’s fist was already raised as he took the last step that brought him to the door, his hand slamming down on the thick, dark wood hard enough to rattle the hinges.  “ _Dorian_?  Bas Saarebas, let me in,” Bull roared, his voice so loud that it echoed down the hallway, concern evident in every reverberation.  When he got no response, Bull slammed his fist against the door once more, scowling at it as though his mood alone could force it open before growling, “Fuck it.  Move back, Boss.”

Bull took one step back and lowered his shoulder, then threw himself at the door.  The sturdy wood creaked but did not shatter which only made Bull more determined as he backed two steps away before throwing himself at it again.  There was a low screech of metal bending but still the door held and forced Bull to throw himself at it a third time.  This time the assault was accompanied by the distinct crack of wood splitting and then Bull was through, his forward momentum forcing him to take several steps into the room or end up on his face.

Straightening, Bull had only a moment to take in the empty chairs and equally barren bed, his eye just beginning to register the pile of discarded books by the nightstand when the Inquisitor’s gasp had him spinning on heel.  Then it was his turn to gasp, his own swallowed before it could become sound as he took in the sight of Dorian sitting at the table where they had taken so many meals.

The mage’s hair stuck straight up as though he’d been running his fingers through it repeatedly, perhaps pulling at it in frustration, his robes sweat-stained and wrinkled, the cuffs dotted with blood.  The same blood that ran in rivulets down his wrists from hands that were coated in it.  Before Bull could dare a word or take a step, a flash of metal caught his eye. He watched as Dorian’s long, sure fingers stabbed a needle through his lip, those same fingers pulling the thread determinedly through the wound until the black thread lay flush, one more black line against ruby flesh.

“Sweet merciful Maker…”

The Inquisitor’s softly uttered words broke through Bull’s torpor, his body moving almost without conscious thought to intercept her before she could reach Dorian’s side.  Curling his arm around her waist, Bull ignored her gasp of outrage and carried her back past the threshold of the door.

“Damn it, Bull, he needs…” the Inquisitor hissed, shoving at Bull’s chest as though she had a chance of moving him.

“I know, Boss,” Bull sighed softly, his fingers wrapping around her arms gently so he didn’t aggravate the wound on her shoulder any further.

“Obviously you don’t because you’re not stopping him!” she countered, the hands against his chest curling into fists as she beat at him.  “Please, Bull, you have to stop him, you can’t let him…”

“Boss! Damn it, Boss, listen to me,” Bull growled as he shook her twice, stopping as soon as she stopped her own assault, fearful eyes finally darting up to catch his own.  Bull read a plethora of emotions in those blue eyes.  Frustration and anger, fear and concern, regret and guilt, all chasing each other over and over.  With a low chuff, Bull pulled her close and wrapped his arms around her as tightly as he dared.  “I promise, I have him, Boss.  I need you to go take care of yourself now.”

“But it’s my…”

“Doesn’t matter whose fault it is, Boss.  It’s done and the only thing we can do is clean up the mess.  For you that means letting a healer take a look at that shoulder before it gets infected. For me it means figuring out just where the fuck I went wrong.”

“Bull, it’s not your…”

“Yeah, doesn’t work like that, Boss,” Bull snorted.  “You made him my responsibility and now I’ve gotta fix this shit.”

_Yeah, some understanding, Hissrad.  You may have a calling as a Vidathiss yet._ Bull scowled at the direction of his thoughts even as he felt the Inquisitor’s arms slip around his waist to hug him tightly for a moment before stepping back.  This time it was determination he read in her eyes as she whispered, “This isn’t your fault, Bull.  But I trust you to fix it.”

“Thanks, Boss,” he whispered with a slight twist of his lips that was too hard to be called a smile.  Apparently it was enough to appease her though since she just nodded at him again, and with one final touch of her hand to his chest, turned to go.   He allowed himself a momentary stab of jealousy at the fact that she got to walk away before drawing in a determined breath and stepping back into the room.  

Accepting that bolting the door would be impossible, Bull moved towards the dresser, his feet grinding on bits of broken glass as he went.  Ignoring the piles of discarded clothing and shattered dresser drawers that had gone unnoticed the first time he stepped into the room, Bull pulled the dresser over to block the door instead before finally turning his attention back to Dorian.

The mage had been busy, pulling two more lines taunt while Bull had been occupied, the stark lines of thread now covering over half of Dorian’s mouth.  Bull found himself having to fight the instinct to snatch the needle from Dorian’s fingers and tear the thread from those plump red lips.  He supposed it would be better if he could say that he resisted out of fear of hurting the mage, but in all honesty it was because he knew that if he couldn’t get through to Dorian’s mind, he would just take the needle back up the next time he was alone.

Sighing heavily, Bull pulled the chair he normally occupied closer to where Dorian sat, the mage’s hand momentarily paused as he stared emotionless at his reflection in the mirror.  Sitting down, Bull leaned

forward, his elbows on his knees as he focused his attention on the Dorian in the mirror rather than the man who sat scant inches from him.  “So I heard you’d had a shit day.”

Dorian’s brow furrowing was his only response.

“Wasn’t your fault you know...”

The furrow deepened as Dorian’s eyes became flinty, his fingers pinching his upper lip.

“Yeah, I know, seems like it was,” Bull said in a rush, his knuckles turning white from being laced together so tightly to prevent himself from reaching for Dorian.  “Come on, Bas Saarebas, I know you want to tell me I’m wrong.  Fuck, _I_ want you to tell me I’m wrong.  Why don’t you…”

Bull broke off at the low growl that came from Dorian, the mage’s eyes narrowing as he deliberately jabbed the needle through his upper lip and pulled the thread through without ever taking his eye off Bull’s reflection in the shard of mirror.

“You stubborn son of a…” Bull muttered more to himself than to Dorian, though that didn’t stop the mage from finally twisting to glare at him directly rather than at his reflection.

“Yeah, I’m talking about you,” Bull grumbled, determined to keep Dorian’s attention.  “Most stubborn son of a bitch I’ve ever met, except maybe Krem.  That something they teach you bastards in school in Tevinter?  Fuck, you should have seen him the day I met him, outnumbered and sure he was going to die and still standing his ground.   Shit, remember that day he knocked me on my ass in the training ring?  Same damn thing.  Everyone else standing around fucking froze like they were just waiting for me to take a swing back at him and who stepped forward to help me up?  ‘Course I would never have taken the swing because it was an _accident_.  

“Not to mention it was my own damned fault for being so distracted by the sound of your laughter?  Yeah, _that’s_ what distracted me that day, Dorian, and it’s gonna suck to never hear that sound again because you’ve gone and condemned yourself over something that was an accident.”

Dorian scowled, then winced as the thread in his lips was pulled by the action.  Squaring his shoulders Dorian turned back towards the mirror only to startle when Bull’s palm slammed down on the table hard enough to make the mirror jump then slip down to lay flat on the table.  A low growl poured from Dorian’s throat as he once again turned to glare at Bull, his eyes practically shooting fire.

“Damn it, Bas…no, fuck that shit.  Damn it, _Dorian_ , what part of this not being your fault don’t you get?  I was the one who told you you could train alone.  The Boss was the one who became so distracted by you that she didn’t want to disturb you by announcing her presence.  Fuck, blame Dalish if you want for putting the idea into your head in the first place if you need to, but you need to accept it…wasn’t…your…fault.”

As Bull spoke, Dorian’s eyes dropped, until he was staring at Bull’s chest instead of his face, but Bull knew he was getting through to the mage by the way his hands began to shake, the free one curling into a fist that he dropped into his lap.  Bull began again, his words softer now, his fingers itching to reach out.  “I know this was an accident, Dorian. The only thing that’s going to convince me otherwise is to hear you say it.  So I’ll ask you just once, did you mean to hurt the Inquisitor?”

Bull held his breath for what felt like an eternity before Dorian finally shook his head minutely.  Relief flooded Bull’s system, not because he had doubted Dorian’s innocence but because he hadn’t been certain of the man’s ability to see the situation rationally.  “Good.  Now, did you even know she was there when you cast the spell?”

Dorian gave another tiny shake of his head, the hand that still held the needle now trembling so hard that Bull feared Dorian would injure himself further unintentionally.  “I promised that I would oversee your training, Dorian.  You trusted me to do that and I’m sorry if I let you down.  But part of that oversight means that it’s my job to decide when you step over the line and I’m telling you right now that you haven’t.  You made a mistake, fuck, the _Boss_ made a mistake.  She should have told you she was there.  Yeah, you probably should’ve made certain you were actually alone before casting the spell.  You both fucked up so you deal with the situation, apologize and move on.  Except you can hardly apologize right now, can you?”

Dorian’s eyes darted up to meet Bull’s for a moment, regret and fear still weighing heavily in them, but tempered with what Bull could only call hope.  Finally giving in to his need to comfort, Bull reached out to cup the mage’s cheek in his palm, his thumb brushing against the corner of Dorian’s mouth that had yet to be stitched.  “You have suffered so much at the hands of my people, Dorian.  And no one can fault you for holding to what you’ve learned, but you deserve better.  You deserve to be free and to live your life the way you want to live it.  These lips deserve kisses, not pain….you have already seen so much of that. It’s time to let it go.  Time to stop letting the words of a dead man dictate your future.”

Bull paused as a single tear broke free and coursed down Dorian’s cheek, his thumb shifting to catch it before it could fall to the ground.  “Come on, Dorian.  Please, let me take them out.  I want to hear your voice. Even if you’re just telling me how fucking impossible I am.”

Dorian huffed out a little laugh, nervously rolling the needle between his thumb and forefinger as his eyes searched Bull, looking for something, the mage alone knew what.  Dorian’s perusal stretched out long enough, was intense enough, that it was Bull who suddenly felt like looking away from fear of what Dorian would find.  Shit, wasn’t like Dorian was the only one who had things in his past that he hid behind a mask, even if Dorian’s was far more literal than Bull’s.

Fuck, how big of a hypocrite did that make him?  Telling Dorian he deserved more from life while he himself was content to live with his own place in the Qun.  Of course what more could you expect from a liar?  Could a lie told by a liar ever be considered truth?  Bull suddenly felt more Hissrad than he had in years…

The feel of Dorian’s fingertips against the back of his hand pulled Bull from his thoughts, the mage’s eyes now clear and shining with concern for Bull, of all things.  Bull felt his own cheeks heat as he realized just how distracted he’d let himself get.  “Yeah, I’m fine…sorry ‘bout that.”

Dorian frowned briefly, his head tilting as he weighed Bull’s words before nodding.  Fierce determination overrode the concern in Dorian’s stare as he pulled Bull’s hand away from his cheek and dropped the needle into his palm.  And, suddenly it was Bull who was watching through a sheen of tears as Dorian nodded his head sharply, his own much smaller hand coming up to lay gently against Bull’s rough, scarred cheek.

That warm ember of a feeling that sat in Bull’s chest, the one that he dared not name threatened to burst into flame at the trust that radiated from Dorian.  No hint of fear in the mage’s eyes as Bull reached for the scissors and snipped at the thread that held the needle before setting both to the side and tipping Dorian’s head so he could get at the thread that still bound his lips together.  Maintaining eye contact, he plucked at the offending slashes of black, rubbing his thumb soothingly over each hole as the thread slid free.  Heedless of the blood that now slicked his own fingers, Bull smiled softly when he pulled the last line out, the hand still curled at Dorian’s chin. He used it to tilt Dorian’s head back and forth as he took in the mage’s much improved countenance.  “Better.”

This close it was impossible to miss heat that flooded Dorian’s cheeks, but his first words were for the Inquisitor.  “How is she?”

“Later,” Bull chuffed as he leaned in and placed a soft kiss first to the side of Dorian’s mouth that had not been injured then again, more carefully to the abused side.

Bull felt Dorian’s soft gasp against his cheek before sitting back and watching as Dorian frowned, then relaxed his features before frowning once again, his hand sliding up to touch the spots Bull had just kissed.  Shrugging, Bull grinned.  “What?  That’s a human thing, right?  Kissing booboos?”

“You are impossible,” Dorian sighed with a shake of his head.

“Ah, there it is,” Bull chuckled, Dorian’s eyes narrowing as he obviously remembered Bull’s earlier comment.  “Besides, you saying no one’s ever done that for you before?”

Dorian arched one brow imperially.  “The Scion of House Pavus does not admit to having booboos.”

“Yeah, well, I suppose it takes the magic out of it when you can, you know, actually _use_ magic to heal them.”

“You are remarkably unsubtle for a spy,” Dorian huffed, then laid his fingertips against his lips and muttered softly, the familiar tingle of magic raising the hair on Bull’s arms a welcome sensation.

Bull grinned as Dorian opened and closed his mouth several times, shifting his jaw back and forth before nodding to himself.  “Better?”

“Much.”

“Good,” Bull agreed, his grin fading as he regarded Dorian thoughtfully.  “You know, you could’ve come to me, you _can_ come to me if things get…overwhelming.”

Dorian’s attention dropped down to where his hands were clasped together in his lap, his thumb working at a spot of blood that stubbornly clung to them for several minutes before finally admitting, “I’m not sure I could have told you my name when it happened, coming here was instinct more than anything else.”

“And sewing your lips shut?”

Bull watched the tendons popped up on the back of Dorian’s hands, one of his own reaching out to curl around both of Dorian’s.  Bull felt the tension drop from the mage, a soft sigh falling from Dorian’s lips as his eyes shut.  “I almost killed her.  All I could think of was you telling me to do no harm and I’d almost killed the leader of the Inquisition.  It just seemed to prove everything Arvaarad said was right.  I am dangerous…”

Sighing heavily, Bull ran his free hand across the top of his head.  “Damn it, Dorian.  Haven’t you realized by now? We’re _all_ dangerous. Every damn one of us.  You put a dagger in the Boss’s hand and she can kill you before you even know she’s there.  Sera can take out a fucking Venatori from halfway across the valley and I’ve watched Varric shoot a bolt through a set of plate armor that my maul would have trouble getting through.

“Not to mention the fact that all that fancy footwork I do with the Chargers isn’t so we look good in the ballroom.  I train that hard for one reason, so when the time comes the ones who end up dead _aren’t_ the ones I came with.  You going to bind and collar us all?”

“Damn it Bull, it’s not the…”

“Ok, fine, you’re dangerous.  More dangerous than the rest of us put together.  To me that just means you’re quick and smart enough to still be standing here when the rest of your kith is rotting on the Storm Coast.  So think about that, Dorian, if everything Arvaarad said and did was so damned right, how come he isn’t the one here right now?”

“ _Because I fucking failed him_ ,” Dorian roared, snatching his hands back from Bull and surging to his feet to pace.  “Failed every Maker forsaken one of them.  The Salits.  Tallis.  Arvaarad.  All dead because of me.  Because I got distracted, I hesitated when Arvaarad gave me a command…got caught up in what I thought I should be doing instead of what he was telling me to do…”

“Why?  What changed that made you question him then and not any of the other battles you fought together?”

Dorian scowled, only the sound of his pacing keeping the room from silence for several long moments.  “Because Arvaarad told me to shield Salit one and I knew both Salits needed it, I got distracted then and was late to shield Tallis.”

“And what would have happened if you had shielded them both?”

“Salit two was already dead.”

“That’s not what I asked, Dorian.  What would have happened if Arvaarad had signaled for you to shield them both?”

Dorian’s feet stumbled to a stop, the expression he leveled Bull with somewhere between incredulous and pissed.  “I would have shielded a fucking dead body, what do you think would have happened?”

“I think you would have shielded a dead body,” Bull admitted with a shrug.  “But I also think that a bit of wasted mana would have been a small price to pay to keep you focused.  You had a pattern, of course changing it felt wrong.  Arvaarad should have anticipated that.  It was his job to make certain you were focused and he failed, not you.”

“But…”

“You can’t have it both ways, Dorian.  You don’t get to claim yourself the weapon of Arvaarad’s will then accept the blame for everything that happens.  A sword feels no remorse for severing the arm of a friend rather than a foe, nor does an arrow get to change its course because the wrong person gets in the way.”

Dorian’s brows knit together as he considered Bull’s words, his shoulders slumping tiredly as he slowly made his way back to the chair he’d abandoned.  “I don’t know that I can accept that, Bull...if I can just pretend that my decisions didn’t play a part in their deaths.”

“I’m not saying you should.   I’m saying that guilt is the companion of a thinking man, not a dangerous thing, and that maybe it’s time you accepted that.”

Dorian slumped in the chair, his fingers worrying at the bloodstains on his cuffs rather than looking at Bull.  He opened and closed his mouth several times before sighing deeply.  “I’m not sure I know how to do that, even if I wanted to.”

Again Bull’s hands sought out Dorian’s, his fingers freeing Dorian’s from the bloody cloth to curl around them protectively.  “That’s the thing, Dorian.  You just keep doing what you’ve been doing.  Well, aside from the ‘let’s stitch my mouth shut again’ thing.”

Dorian’s sharp bark of laughter echoed through the room, his shoulders shaking as he tipped his head to look up at Bull.  “You really suck at the whole Qunari recruitment speech, you know that, right?”

_Hard to recruit when you’re not sure you even believe in it anymore._ Bull startled at his own thoughts.  Fuck, not like he’d ever been particularly devout, especially after Seheron, but was it really that bad?

Dorian’s nails dug into the soft flesh of Bull’s palm.  “Shit, I’m sorry, Bull.  I shouldn’t have…”

“Naw, it’s alright,” Bull chuffed, giving Dorian a small grin and a shrug.  “Fact is, some folks do well under the Qun.  People who don’t want to make decisions, who’d rather have rules in place for everything.  But you, fuck, Dorian, you’ve got too much personality to make a good Viddathari.”

Bull knew he’d said something wrong when Dorian’s hands went slack in his own, the mage’s attention returning to his lap.  “Damn it, I meant that as a good thing, Dorian.”

“Yeah, I know,” the mage muttered, a wry grin tugging at the side of his face that Bull could still see.  “I just don’t…it’s just…there’s a certain comfort to letting someone else make the decisions, you know?”

“Can’t argue with you there.  Only you can decide if being your own man is worth it.  Way I see it, though, if you’re going to take on all the responsibility for your actions anyway, you might as well be the one calling the shots.”

“Yes, because I’ve done such a stellar job at that.”

“One mistake, Dorian.  You made one mistake.  But you’re right, you’ll probably make more.  Odds are in your favor there.  Might even have another setback and start searching for the collar and cuffs thinking that you’re better with them.  That it’s too hard and it’s not worth it. Do you know what you do then?”

Dorian turned so he could look up at Bull through his lashes, his words spoken almost too quietly to hear.  “Find you?”

For the first time since the Inquisitor had burst through his door Bull felt like he could breathe freely, his smile broad and true.  “Yep, you find me.”


	17. Epilogue:  Free Men

3 months later

 

“So, what do you think of the Storm Coast?”

Dorian scowled over at the Inquisitor, ignoring the little grin that said she knew _exactly_ what he thought of the area in favor of pulling the hood of his cloak down farther over his forehead.  “I believe it is the most aptly named region of Thedas I have ever had the misfortune to visit.”

Evie’s laughter was bright, the hand that landed on his shoulder warm.  “That’s only because you haven’t yet visited the Fallow Mire.  Nothing but swamp and decaying bodies for as far as the eye can see.”

“Delightful,” Dorian drawled, coming to a stop when he saw Bull stop in front of him.  While he was thankful for any opportunity to leave Skyhold, he couldn’t help wishing that they were back in the Hissing Wastes, where he had spent his first mission as part of the Inquisition.  He’d gladly face legions of Venatori to feel that blessed warmth against his skin again.

“Alright, our Qunari contact should be here to meet us,” Bull announced, drawing Dorian’s mind back to the rather damp present just in time to see a slender elf slip out of the brush.

“He is.  Good to see you again, Hissrad.”

“Gatt!  Last I heard you were still in Seheron.”

“They finally decided I’d calmed down enough to go back into the world.”

“Boss, this is Gatt.  We worked together in Seheron.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Inquisitor. Hissrad’s reports say you’re doing good work.”

Evie snorted softly, her eyes darting over to Bull for a moment before reaching out to take Gatt’s outstretched hand.  “It’s so good to hear friends say good things about me in their secret spy reports.”

“He does, but they aren't really secret, are they?” Gatt taunted, his eyes locking onto Dorian with a knowing smirk.

“Look, Gatt…” Bull rumbled, shifting to place himself firmly between the spy and Dorian.

“Relax, Hissrad,” Gatt chuckled, the sound managing to lack any hint of amusement.  “Not like I’m here to take away your pet saarebas.  I’m just surprised to find you willingly keeping one considering your opinion of them.”

Dorian bristled, only the fact that Gatt was obviously trying to get a rise out of him stopping him from responding.  Apparently Evie felt no such compulsions as she growled, “Dorian is neither a pet nor a Saarebas.  He is a valued member of my inner circle and you shall address him as such.”

Gatt’s expression changed in the blink of an eye, his manner becoming as simpering as any court attendant.  “Of course, Inquisitor.  Unlike our superiors, I know how it works out here.  We’re in this together.  The Tevinter Imperium is bad enough without the influence of this Venatori cult.”

Evie linked her arm through Gatt’s, prompting a little startled jump from the spy who quickly recovered and walked away at her side as she explained, “Dorian has proven invaluable when it comes to providing information about…”

A little smile flitted across Dorian’s lips as he wondered if the spy was even aware that he was being maneuvered away from both Bull and Dorian before he could cause any further trouble.  Evie was nothing if not loyal.  

“I suppose I should have warned you that I’d spoken about you to my superiors,” Bull admitted, stepping closer to Dorian’s side until their arms brushed.

Dorian shrugged, his attention still on where Evie and Gatt were now speaking on the far side of the clearing.  “I knew you sent queries off on what exactly to do with me when I first arrived in Skyhold.  I suppose it was just a matter of time before someone came to check on me.”

“The fact that they sent Gatt says this is more about me than you, Dorian.”

“Hmm, so you don’t think he’s here to kill me?”

“Shit, that’s a healthy dose of paranoia you’re carrying.  We’ll make a Ben-Hassrath out of you yet,” Bull chuffed, his elbow nudging at Dorian’s arm.  “But no, if they wanted you dead they wouldn’t have sent Gatt.  I know too much about how he works for him to be an effective assassin here.  No, this is about testing me…”

Dorian found he liked the sound of that even less than he liked the idea of being the target himself.  No matter how often Bull insisted that Dorian’s recovery was due to his own efforts, Dorian knew that he owed everything to Bull and he’d be damned if he’d let any harm befall the warrior if it was in his power to prevent it.  Eyes narrowing, Dorian watched the slight elf say something that had Evie barking out a laugh and was only partially joking when he offered, “I could kill him now and no one would be the wiser.”

Bull chuckled softly, his hand curling around Dorian’s shoulder.  “Bloodthirsty, I like it.  But for now let’s just see how things play out.”

 

Badly.  Things were playing out fucking badly.

It seemed as though only a few moments had passed, but Dorian had been in enough battles to know that that was the way fights for your life tended to go, time slipping by like water through a sieve until now he stood beside Bull, watching as a small contingent of Venatori mages advanced on the Chargers’ position.

“They still have time to fall back if you signal them now,” Evie hissed from Bull’s other side, concern evident in each word.

“Yeah.”  

The word was sighed with far more reluctant acceptance than Dorian wanted to hear and apparently he wasn’t the only one since Gatt quickly hissed, “Your men need to hold that position, Bull.”

Oh sure, _now_ he was Bull, when the slippery elf wanted something, Dorian thought bitterly, spinning on his heel to glare at the spy.  He had little doubt that slip of the tongue had been made on purpose.  Dorian made no attempt to hide the contempt in his tone.  “They do that, they’re dead.”

“And if they don’t, the Venatori retake it and the dreadnaught is dead.  Hissrad would be throwing away an alliance between the Inquisition and the Qunari.  Declaring himself Tal-Vashoth,” Gatt countered, the words spat at Dorian through clenched teeth before Gatt’s attention shifted to Bull.  “With all you’ve given the Inquisition, half the Ben-Hassrath think you’ve betrayed us already.  I stood up for you Hissrad.  I told them you would never become Tal-Vashoth.”

Bull’s attention never shifted from the steady progression of the Venatori up the beach, his words tortured.  “They’re _my_ men.”

“I know, but you need to do what’s right, Hissrad.  For this alliance...and for the Qun.  You _…”_

 _“Fuck the Qun,”_ Dorian practically roared, drowning out any words Gatt might have spoken next.  “Sound the retreat, Bull.  You _have_ to sound the retreat.”

“He’s right, Bull,” Dorian heard Evie agree just as Gatt slunk closer to him, the expression of unrestrained fury on Gatt’s face enough to have Dorian summoning a protective barrier as he continued to stare the spy down.

The warbling note of Bull’s horn rang out before either Dorian or Gatt had time to speak, both men's attention shifting first to Bull then following the warrior’s own gaze to see the Chargers beating a hasty retreat even as the Venatori turned their own attention to the dreadnaught.

Evie reached out as the Venatori mages conjured fireballs, her hand curling around Bull’s forearm.  “Bull, when the dreadnaught sinks…”

Bull’s laugh was dark and bitter, Gatt’s high pitched and incredulous.  It was Dorian who answered, “Sinks?  Evie, Qunari dreadnaughts don’t sink.”

Evie’s gasp was swallowed by the sound of the dreadnaught exploding and as the blast wave of heat washed over all of them, Dorian found himself mentally saying a prayer for the men that were lost.  He might not consider himself bas saarebas any longer, but the loss of so many lives was something he couldn’t help but mourn.

“All these years, Hissrad, and you throw away all that you are.  For what?  For this?  For _him_?”

Dorian snorted derisively.  “Better that he sacrifice his kith for _you_?”

“For the _Qun,”_ Gatt growled, his hand slipping down his side as he took yet another step toward Dorian.

Dorian shook his head, incredulously.  “And I thought they did a number on me.  Fuck, you really believe all this shit, don’t you?”

“The Qun made me who I am.”

“The Qun made you what _they_ needed.”

“I was nothing, a slave to worthless men like you.  The Qunari gave me a purpose.”

“A slave to a new master is still a slave.”

Gatt’s lip curling in a snarl was Dorian’s only warning before the man launched himself across the remaining distance between them.  Twin silver daggers arched towards Dorian’s throat only to be brought up short, deflected in a shower of green sparks, Dorian’s magic humming as his barrier’s defenses were tested.

“Hissrad freed me and you destroyed him,” Gatt snapped, his daggers plunging towards Dorian again despite the barrier.  “You ruined the best man I’ve ever known.”

“He’s the ‘best man’ _because_ he thinks for himself,” Dorian said sadly, a flick of his fingers refreshing the barrier just as Gatt readied himself for another attack.  It was hard to believe that only a few short months ago ago he would have likely agreed with the elven spy.

“That’s enough,” Bull growled, one thick arm curling around Gatt’s waist to hold him in place.

Denied a physical attack, Gatt was forced to settle for hissing, “You are nothing but a failure, bas saarebas.  First to your family and then to the Qun.  It is only a matter of time before you fail Hissrad as well.”

Dorian drew in a deep breath, waiting for the moment that the pain of Gatt’s words made his chest clench...only to find that the only thing he felt for the man standing before him was pity.  He had a feeling that even if Gatt spent a dozen years at Hissrad’s side he would never understand everything that made The Iron Bull unique.  What was it Bull had told him, some people were just made to follow the Qun…

Tilting his head up, Dorian shifted his gaze from Gatt to meet Bull’s own concerned visage.  Giving Bull a reassuring smile, Dorian’s words were still directed at Gatt.  “I may be a failure in your eyes, Gatt, but Bull has shown me what true freedom is for the first time in my life.  That’s a type of success you’ll never understand, any more than you could ever dream to understand why Bull would _never_ have chosen to sacrifice the Chargers.”

“Oh, I understand,” Gatt spit out, his attention shifting from Dorian to Bull and back again.  “You made him weak.”

“Loving someone doesn’t make you weak,” Dorian countered softly, his attention still focused so completely on Bull that it was impossible to miss the brief spark of hope Dorian’s words brought to that one silver eye.

“Tell that to the men who died on that ship,” Gatt ground out, wrenching out of Bull’s hold only to spin around to pin Bull with a sad stare.  “I hope you know what you gave up today.   _My_ people will not soon forget.”

Dorian watched as Gatt turned from them, slipping his daggers back into their sheaths before disappearing into the brush.  For several long moments the only sound was that of the rain that still fell in thick sheets to the ground, the only constant in a day that had brought nothing but surprises.

“So, love, huh?”

Alright, maybe two constants.  With a roll of his eyes, Dorian drawled, “You are impossible.”

Bull smirked and took a step closer, one huge shoulder shifting in a shrug.  “I’m just saying, I know I’m pretty irresistible but I didn’t realize…”

“I was talking about the Chargers.”

“Yeah, sure you were, Big Guy,” Bull teased, taking a second step closer.

“You are far too annoying for me to ever…” Dorian began, breaking off when Bull’s third step brought him only inches away from Dorian.  Close enough to kiss if Dorian had been so inclined--not that he was, of course--but also close enough that Dorian could see the slight tremors to the warrior’s hand that distance had hidden.  

Bridging the final inches himself, Dorian laid a hand on Bull’s chest, feeling the way that Bull’s heart raced beneath his fingers.  Eyes softening, he whispered, “Are you alright, Bull?  Did I overstep telling Gatt you were better off without the Qun?”

“I’m fine.”  Bull’s huff was followed by a soft sigh, his shoulders dropping slightly.  “Well, as fine as I can be considering I’ll probably go mad without the structure the Qun provides.”

“That’s never going to happen,” Dorian growled, the thought alone so abhorrent Dorian had trouble even contemplating it.

Bull shook his head slowly.  “Listen, the Qun might not work for you, but there’s one reason my people haven’t wiped each other out already and that’s the Qun.  Without it we get lost in our own heads, irrational and dangerous to anyone around us.”

Dorian snorted and glared up at Bull.  “Says who?  Those same assholes that convinced me I was better off with a collar around my neck?”

“Dorian…”

“I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again,” Dorian growled, slapping his hand against Bull’s chest.  “Fuck the Qun.  You going insane is not an option, you know why?”

Bull arched his brow, his expression trapped firmly between pain and reluctant amusement.  “Why?”

Dorian scowled and slid his hand from Bull’s chest up until it curled around his neck, tugging until Bull dropped his head down enough that Dorian could lean up and rest their foreheads against one another.  “Because if it starts to worry you, you’ll come find me.”

Bull’s bark of laughter was hot against Dorian’s skin.  “Is that right?”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“I don’t know, that might require you to stick close to me.”

Dorian’s grin was wide and bright as he felt Bull’s arm slip behind his back and pull him tight against Bull’s chest.   Tilting his head just an inch he whispered against Bull's lips,  “This close enough for you?”

“It’ll do for a start,” Bull countered, his lips meeting Dorian’s own in a kiss that was both too long in coming and impossibly perfect.

Because even though Dorian had been through too much to think that there wouldn’t be nights that Bull turned to him, missing the structure and familiarity of his old life, and even though Dorian was certain he’d have just as many nights when he turned to Bull questioning whether he was actually any better than the dangerous thing the Qunari saw him as...For now, they were both free men.  

And for just a moment, with Bull’s tongue hot against his own and Bull’s hand spread warm and firm against his back, Dorian forgot about the rain.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OMG, so first, my deepest apologies for being so late getting this last chapter out. It is so not my style to have such a big break between chapters. Apparently crossing an ocean and learning to drive on the other side of the road and immersing myself in history and lore makes me too tired to actually get any writing done...lesson learned.
> 
> As a mea culpa however, I will be continuing this tale in a second part of a series. I found that there was so much more i wanted to explore in this verse that just didn't seem to fit in the feeling of this piece so there will be another one coming that will explore Dorian and Bull's budding relationship as well as Bull's feelings on being Tal-Vashoth and Dorian's past coming back to bite him...
> 
> My thanks as always to everyone who has taken the time to read, kudo or comment on this fic....I'm thrilled that so many of you enjoyed it!!!!!

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, [Dichotomous_Dragon](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Dichotomous_Dragon/pseuds/Dichotomous_Dragon) remember when I said this was going to be a 'quick 10 chapters'? Yeah, I lied. But, as always, my everlasting thanks go out to you for betaing this beast...all the love, girlie!!
> 
>  
> 
> I can be found on Tumblr at Cyber-fairie


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